


Ghosts and Dragons: The Ebb Rises

by B_Radley



Series: Rise and Fight Again [45]
Category: Star Wars: All Media, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Families of Choice, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love, Multi, Post Episode: Family Reunion and Farewell, Post Episode: World Between Worlds, Rebirth and Renewal, Some mature language and situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-16 19:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14171862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: Two families heal and move forward. One of their lost tries to find a way back to them.





	1. You can get there from here, though there’s no going home.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ghosts and Dragons: The Lowest Ebb](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8782891) by [B_Radley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley). 



> Takes place after the Rebels season finale. Some parts reference past works, specifically the last two chapters of _The Lowest Ebb_. Think it stands alone, though.

Ahsoka looks at the location of the portal—the portal that had just been reclaimed in her memory. Soon after walking through the door to the lower levels of the Sith Temple, her memory of what exactly had occurred had become jumbled—a fog. A fog only broken by her intermittent contacts with her hunt-brother, the ex-Jedi once known as Taliesin Croft.

His injured Force-sense, coupled with _something else_ had apparently helped her keep her sanity in this place, as well as helped her heal in mind and body. Only on the cold nights of Malachor did she feel the twinges of the broken bones from her time with Ezra Bridger in the world between worlds.

Time that she had only just retrieved in the past few days. Her mind was still trying to process the revelations of what she had missed while in the mists of the Force in the depths of the Temple. She mourns the loss of Kanan Jarrus, yet another connection to the Jedi Temple. A loss incurred just as he had grown into the Jedi that she had once told him she knew he could be during a long ago sparring session. A smile flows to her features as she marvels at the growth of his Padawan in two years—a Jedi Knight in all but name, but with plenty of room for more growth.

Ahsoka laughs as she remembers one of the first conversations with Jame—the birth name of her hunt-brother—she could remember from their new existence. _Little bastard needed to be taught something, Runt, he had said in their minds. Somebody needed to tell him what his disobedience had cost._ Her smile fades as she remembers her reply. 

_He knows, Bait. Believe me, he knows._

Morai flies into her view, gently butting her head against Ahsoka’s arm. “Hey, cutie,” she says, a smile on her face once again. She hears a quiet chitter, then a full hoot. The convor headbutts her again. Ahsoka’s eyes widen as she once again is able to glean the meaning of the sounds.

At least she hopes she is.

_+I know what you are thinking, little one,+_ the voice says—once again a mixture of the voices of the Daughter, Qui-gon Jinn, and apparently her hunt-brother’s late wife, J’ohlana Wren.

“Yeah? What’s that, Morai?” she asks. 

_+That you should’ve died when Vader swung his saber. That he should’ve cut you in half—that it was your moment—your moment to sacrifice yourself.+_

Ahsoka sits down heavily on a nearby rock. “Maybe it should’ve been,” she whispers, closing her eyes.

“Yeeeowtch!” she yells, looking down at the tiny red marks on her bare arm, where Morai’s beak had plunged in. “What the hell?” She stares at the bird. “You know, I bet you would look mighty tasty with gravy and maybe a boiled root mix.”

_+That would entail you knowing how to cook. Good thing you haven’t actually needed to.+  
_

Ahsoka closes her mouth. “Why wasn’t it my time? I saw that saber swinging down. I knew that the cost of trying to either save my Master or kill him could be my death when I pushed Ezra away.”

_+Dume chose his moment because his crew—no, his family—would’ve died. I think that you realized when put those sabers in the floor, that your Master was dead. You only had to save yourself then—no matter who helped you—Ezra, the will of his Master, your hunt-brother, whoever.+_

Ahsoka is silent as the mind’s words sink in.

The convor moves to her knees. _+Your story is not that of Anakin Skywalker’s Padawan or even that of being yet another reason he fell to the dark side, as I sometimes hear in your thoughts—thoughts that you keep even from Jame.+_ The last phrase sounds only in J’ohlana’s voice. _+Your story is your own. You have a destiny of your own, even if you don’t know quite what it is.+_

“I always thought that it would involve Jame,” she whispers, half to herself.

_+It may still,+_ Morai says.

“I haven’t had contact with him in weeks, I think. Maybe more. Hell, it may have been only a few seconds ago.” She brushes away tears. “I don’t know if it is because of the injury to his Force-sense or if he is dead,” she finishes, choking at the last word.

_+I think that you have to trust in the Force that you will see each other again.+_

Ahsoka bites back a retort at the platitudes. She hears a hint of dry humor in the bird’s voice.

_+Maybe then I won’t have to listen to your side of those other ‘connections’ you and he have made when you thought that I was out.+_

Ahsoka Smirks as she realizes that this sentence only comes in the deep tones of Qui-Gon Jinn. She is not sure as she blushes as well, that she hears giggles from the other two voices present. She reaches out and scratches Morai behind her peaked ears. The convor leans into her palm and makes a cooing noise. One that is not translated into Basic.

_+It is good to have you back, Ahsoka,+_ the other voices say. 

Ahsoka takes a deep breath. “I think that I should see about getting out of here,” she says, standing again.

_+That may still be a challenge. I think that the planet may not be visible in the realm of the Galaxy, yet. Remember that Maul was trapped here for years.+_

“Yeah. Don’t remind me,” she says. “Do you think I should stay up here?” she asks, sweeping her hand around the exterior of the remains of the Temple. “I kind of lost myself the last time I went through the portal and below. Jame was the only thing that anchored me.”

_+I don’t know,+_ Morai says. _+It may be worth a try, since you might be able to contact your hunt-brother better.+_

“I am not sure that I want to go back into that trance or not,” she says after a moment. “I need to get back into the fight. I promised Ezra that I would find him.”

_+This might not be your fight, little one. You may not even be able to find Bridger. You don’t even know what time has passed since you made that promise.+_ Morai rises to her shoulder and touches her cheek gently, this time with her beak. _+It may be others’ fight, as we have said before. You are shielded here. Vader thinks that you are dead. Palpatine probably thinks you are trapped beyond the vale. What would happen if you went back and he or his minions found you?+_

“Then that may be my destiny,” Ahsoka says quietly.

_+What about those you fight with? Is it their destiny to have the might of the Empire down on them because they are searching for you? Didn’t you push Jame away because of your fear of facing Vader? Didn’t you push Ezra and your new family away because they would’ve died?+  
_

“I hid well enough for fifteen years,” she replies. “Plus, I think that I know that Jame and I should fight again together. My fear pushed him away; caused me to forget my oath to him. Something I would’ve taken him to task for, and have. That I should fight with him, and allow him to fight with me.” As she finishes, a pair of green eyes and a warm, crooked grin, both under gray hair flies to the forefront of her mind. She gasps as she sees him lying on the ground, those green eyes open and staring, as a red lightsaber is removed from his chest. The eyes focus on her accusingly. She shakes her head, dispelling that vision, focusing only on the other.

_+It may be a moot point, Ahsoka. The Force may not let you off of Malachor.+_

The three-part harmony of Morai’s voice haunts her as she kneels on the hard, wounded soil. She closes her eyes, placing her lightsabers on the ground in front of her in a precise position. She opens her mind to the Force. 

Ahsoka doesn’t search for the tri-colored light, the representation of his world and his family in her Force-sense, missing from her mind. She sits and waits as Malachor fades around her. Her mind is calm, as she searches for answers as well. As she tries to solve her dilemma of what to do.


	2. Everywhere you go will be somewhere you’ve never been. Try this:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Searching for answers in wrong and right places.

**Unknown Regions**   
**18 years after the Fall of the Republic**   
**Alliance Frigate _Ranger of Shandai_**

Nola Vorserrie takes a deep breath, then knocks on the hatch. She looks at the Captain of the smaller vessel attached to the frigate’s airlock. Meglann Florlin nods at her, after unconsciously checking her uniform. Nola smiles softly. _Two years a corvette Captain; can’t even remember how many years she has known him, still thinks he is going to bawl her out for a thread out of place._

Nola rolls her eyes and opens the door. The tableau before them reinforces the idea that there would be no bawling out for uniform infractions.

Jame Blackthorn, Commodore of the Dragon Combined Arms Group, known collectively as ‘those Corellian assholes’, ‘those goddamned pirates’, or even less complementary names by certain high-ranking members of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, stands with his shirt off and his pants down off of his hips. A small red-furred being turns and looks thunderously at them, just as he jabs a small needle into Blackthorn’s hip. 

The Commodore looks over his shoulder at the intruders with his own version of a matching expression on the Drall. “I didn’t say come in,” he says his voice steel.

Nola walks on in. “Didn’t think you needed to.” She looks over at Meglann, who is grinning. “Plus, we have both seen your ass before.”

“That is more information than I needed to know,” says Hegridhara, the Drall physician. He lifts up another syringe. “Still got three more to go, Commodore,” he says. “Then four in the shoulder tomorrow.”

Nola sees Meglann’s eyes tear before she looks away. The Group intelligence and civil affairs officer notices that her own vision blurs. She takes a deep breath and waits for Heg to finish his treatments.

Jame pulls his pants up, then dons his shirt. Nola sees him look at Heg and nod his thanks. Heg touches his arm and returns the nod. The doctor steps down from the bed and moves towards the hatch. He touches both Nola and Meglann on their arms as he leaves.

“What have you got?” he asks, moving towards his small desk. He motions towards two chairs. Blackthorn sits on the edge of the desk, putting most of his weight on his left hip, the one not perforated by a lightsaber nearly two decades ago.

“Command got a weird communique from Hera Syndulla on Lothal. She says she has liberated Lothal—that the Imp presence is gone.”

Jame raises his eyebrow. Nola grins as she remembers how that expression could piss another off. Just before they fell into each other’s arms, laughing. As always, she waits for the chest punch that those memories of Ahsoka always give her.

“So what does she want? I would take the flotilla there in a heartbeat to help her,” he says.

“That’s the thing. She isn’t asking for any help,” Nola says.

Jame doesn’t reply. He reaches into a small cabinet on the bulkhead and pulls out a bottle and three mismatched caf cups. He pours a couple of fingers in each and distributes them.

“Why didn’t she?” he asks.

“Don’t know. I think she said something like, ‘We took it without your help; we’ll hold it without you.”

“Those are probably Zeb’s words,” he says with a grin. “Or Kanan’s.” 

Nola looks across the room. “There were casualties, Jame,” she says quietly.

Jame’s shoulders slump. “Tell me.”

“Kanan Jarrus died a few days before, saving his crew. Ezra Bridger is listed as ‘missing’.”

_The two last Jedi. Or at least those that can still function_ , he thinks. 

Jame closes his eyes, his face one of a man who has already lost so much. Nola moves closer to him, takes him in her arms.“There’s more, Jame,” she says, placing her lips against his neck.

“Tell me,” he finally replies.

“Gregor. He died during the assault on the dome. Rex was with him at the end.”

Jame says nothing. Nola feels Meglann walk over and embrace them both.

After a moment, he stands, his face unreadable. He walks over to the comm console. A bridge officer answers. “Signal ‘Captains repair on board,” he says into the pickup. He turns back to the two younger officers.

“Dani’s still on leave, right?” he muses.

“If you can call it that. She’s visiting ‘she whose name we must never mention’,” Nola says acerbically.

“I need somebody to take over the Ranger,” he says. “The XO is too green. Tamsin will take over the flotilla as acting commodore, as I have something else in mind for you, dear,” he says, touching Meglann on her shoulder.

“Boge,” Meglann says without hesitation. 

“You sure? He might be next in line for the Bucket,” he replies.

“Yeah, but he probably should’ve been ahead of me,” Meglann says, her eyes fixing on his.

“The other Commanders and corvette Captains concurred unanimously with that decision,” he says, his eyes flashing. “Plus, Boge has made it clear that he doesn’t really want a command. I don’t even think he wants to leave the _Sloane_ ,” he adds, giving the _Bucket_ its now-proper name. “Stop doubting yourself.”

For an instant, Nola sees the contest of wills begin, as both of them lock their feet to the deck. Her heart leaps as she thinks of how much Meglann has grown in the past dozen years—grown from association with many, including the manifestation of stubbornness from their Commodore.

_Like many in their family_ , she thinks. Including the huntress on all of their minds, every day for some. Nola grins, the sadness dissipating. _Not me, though. I am agreeable to everyone._

Meglann looks down, breaking the impasse. Nola reaches out places her fingers under the young woman’s chin, brings her eyes back up. “He is ready, especially with Tamsin as acting,” Meglann says. “If they can keep from killing each other.”

Nola snorts. “Some folks said that about me and her a decade ago,” she says. “We’re both still alive.”

“What do you have in mind, Jame?” Meglann asks. 

“Get the _Bucket_ ready, Meglann,” he replies, touching her on her cheek. “We’ll leave the gang to keep watch on that trade lane, in case they can cut out any sneaky Imps trying to avoid our commerce raiding.” He looks at them both. “We’re going to Lothal.” He smiles. “Promote Boge to Lieutenant Commander. He did a great job acting as XO on the _Ranger_ in the past. He and Lexa can switch. She needs some more seasoning; she’s too junior to be the XO on a frigate.”

“She’ll think it is a demotion,” Meglann says.

“I know, but I have to make the call. She didn’t actually have the rank anyway; she’s only a Lieutenant. I’ll tell her,” he finishes. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Daaineran Faygan, looks down at the sleeping Pantoran woman lying in the narrow bed. The sheet is off of them both, as the heat rises in the Tattooine morning. One sun is already above the horizon; the other is following close behind.

Dani sighs as she lays back against the still-cool wall of the rented room. She catches a glimpse of a smile quirking the lips of her heart-bond. Her own lips remain thin as she thinks about how much longer that phrase will be true.

Lassa Rhayme opens her eyes slowly, then lifts her arms above her head, stretching slowly and demonstratively. In the past, that sinuous movement would have made Dani lie on top of her.

Lassa’s bronze eyes lock on Dani’s purple. The pirate’s eyes fall to her own abdomen. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Dani is silent for a moment. Finally she reaches down and kisses Lassa. When they break free, she smiles softly. “I know. I know that you felt constricted in the flotilla. You felt like you could do more as one of Draven’s assets. But we had something good going.”

Lassa nods. “I know, my love. I feel like I let you all down when I let Draven talk me into resurrecting the Blood Bone Order.” Her eyes tear. She palms them away angrily. “I let you down.”

Dani runs her fingers over Lassa’s jawline. Her own eyes tear as she touches the spot where Lassa had finally applied tattoos. Two crimson lines drooping from the corners of her mouth. For her heart-bond and another warrior who had died just as she returned to the light. 

She had removed them, to complete the legend of a total break with her family. 

Lassa reaches up and kisses the tears from Dani’s eyes. “I miss them. Just as I miss you and the others.” She chokes. “My family.”

Dani moves her hand over her shoulder, to her right shoulder blade. A place that she knows now bears a representation of the Zeltron soul on either side of an orange, blue, and white facsimile of a beloved huntress’s facial markings, along with the two lines in purple for Asajj Ventress.“Come back with me, Lassa,” she says, as she always does, for the last year or so.

“I can’t. Draven has threatened to break us all up,” Lassa replies. “Plus, you know as well as id do that I might be able to find our lost.”

“Let him try,” Dani says. “There are those at Command who wouldn’t want to lose an effective cell like ours.”

Lassa looks into her eyes, then kisses her. When they break away again, Lassa begins to kiss her way down Dani’s body. Dani closes her eyes and surrenders to the moment.

As the light expands, she looks down at her lover with her now-black eyes. _Maybe next time_ , she thinks as her cries rise in the dawn.

+=+=+=+=+=

Blackthorn looks up from his datapad as the door to the Captain’s quarters open. He had lost the argument with Meglann when he had said he didn’t need anything more than a bunk. She had shoved him on the bed and looked at him with an expression that she had surely learned from many teachers. “Don’t want to hear it, Commodore Sport. Heg said you are to be comfortable and get some uninterrupted sleep. He showed us how to give you your injections for your shoulder, although,” she says, looking down her nose at him, “he said you should be able to give them to yourself.” 

He had looked away from her at that. She had reached down and kissed him gently, before turning to take command of her ship.

Nola Vorserrie stands in the door, her bag slung over her shoulder.

“No-no, what the hell are you doing here?” he asks, his eyes flashing.

“Meglann said I could bunk here. Said you would be asleep and wouldn’t mind.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, Colonel Vorserrie. I meant what the hell are doing going with us?”

“My boss said that it might be good for a civil affairs officer to go with you, and at least offer any help rebuilding.”

“Dammit, Nola, I thought that we were done playing games. What did you tell Dodonna—?”

Her own dark eyes flash back at him. “I didn’t tell Dodonna shit. My actual boss told me about Hera’s call. She said that you would probably do something harebrained.”

He slumps. “Mothma.”

“Yep. I work for you, but she supports what you are doing. Even when you are pissing off the rest of the Alliance High Command.” She touches his face, allowing her fingers to play over his lips. She moves her fingers up through the thin beard on his cheeks and chin. “I think that she feels like she is honoring Draq’ by looking out for you.” She pulls his head to her chest. 

As his mind quiets against her, he thinks of those missing. Ahsoka is not the only hole in his heart.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann looks up from where she stands near the nav-table. She nods to the pilot; the stars lengthen into chaos. She turns at the sound of someone entering the bridge. 

“Is he asleep?” she asks. 

Nola smiles. “Yeah. Nearly as soon as his head hit the pillow.”

“Why don’t you go turn in, as well, Colonel?” Meglann says. 

“Meglann, we’ve known each other awhile. We don’t have to stand on ceremony.”

The Captain nods. “Go rest, Nola,” she says. “Navicomputer says about twenty hours to Lothal.”

“I will when you do, Captain. You’ve had a busy ten-day, yourself.” 

Meglann feels Nola’s long fingers play over her temple, where a healing burn disappears into her bronze curls.

“It’s nothing,” Meglann says.

Both women hear a snort behind them. They turn and see three men in various types of armor and fatigues. The oldest one, whose eyes speak of kinship with their flotilla commander, grins.

“Both of you didn’t exactly come out unscathed in that little misadventure,” Fenn Shysa says. “Get below. Somebody has to kiss my nephew’s old boo-boo tomorrow.” His smile softens. “Somebody was doing something right when they kept the bed from the party barge days. There’s room enough for all of you.”

“No can do, Commander,” Meglann says. “You may outrank me, but on this boat, my word is law.” She grins. “Plus, I have it on good authority that Major Tredecima would sit on you if I batted my eyes at him.”

A tall hunter, wearing the insignia of a Sergeant of Alliance Special Forces, laughs at Drop’s thunderous expression.

Drop glares at Cubreem Makyo-Ry. “Watch it, pup.” He turns to Meglann and jerks his head to the hatch.

With a sigh, Meglann stands. “Call me if anything happens,” she says to her new XO. “I am relieved.”

Lexa Merricope turns to the viewport. She knows that Meglann was watching her, analyzing her performance. The Captain must have seen something, as she had turned the ship over to her without so much as a second glance. She smiles in relief. In spite of Dani’s patience and coaching, she had not been ready for that responsibility. She wonders if her selection might have had something to do with Dani’s feelings for her mother. Her smile fades. As she contemplates the chaos, she thinks of her missing, as well. 

The Disappeared of Corellia.


	3. head south on Mississippi 49, one-by-one mile markers ticking off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The _Ghosts_ mourn and try to regroup.

**Lothal**

Sabine rests, placing her hands against the small of her back. She hears the bones pop and crackle. _Great. Twenty years old and I sound like Rex in the morning._

She looks around the makeshift command center and nods with satisfaction. Melch, Hondo’s assistant pirate looks up at her and grunts a question. Sabine grins. “Yep. Good work Melch. You can go find Hondo, now. Now that the work is all done, he can take credit for it.”

The snorting laughter follows him down the passageway. She shakes her head at the fact that she can almost understand the Ugnaut now. She turns as she hears more familiar footsteps.

Her eyes soften as Hera Syndulla walks into the room. Sabine’s eyebrows rise as she realizes that Hera is once again pale, her eyes filled with fatigue. Sabine says nothing. She goes to pour a cup of caf from the thermal pot. Hera holds her hand up and shakes her head.

“Who are you and what have you done with my General?” Sabine asks.

“Just don’t want any, Sabine. Don’t read anything in to it,” Hera says, her expression guarded.

Sabine starts to say something, bites it back. “Okay, Hera, whatever you say. But you look like poodoo. Just as you have almost since we won Lothal back.”

“I’m fine,” is all Hera says. “Is everything up and running?”

“Yeah,” Sabine replies, her teeth clinching at obstinate leaders. “Everything but long-range sensors. I could use some help other than Chopper and Melch on those.”

Hera rests against the holotank, her hand moving to her belly, rubbing it absently. Sabine had seen this move with more and more frequency. “I’ll talk to Dodonna; see if they can free a sensor technician.” She moves her eyes to a monitor across the room. “We may get a little help. Your uncle is on his way,” she says.

“Jame? The Dragons?” Sabine says. She smiles.

Hera matches her expression. “No. Not the whole flotilla. Just him and maybe a civil affairs officer. The _Bucket_.”

Sabine feels her face flush as she thinks about who else might be aboard the Commando Assault Corvette. Hera rolls her eyes. “Yes, I am sure that Cubreem might be aboard. Aren’t you and Ketso—?”

Sabine looks away. “If you call giving each other thunderous looks and cursing at one another, that, then yeah, everything is fine.”

Hera moves over to her and takes her in her arms. Sabine hugs her back, tightly.

Hera pulls her head back. “Mon Mothma called. She can’t offer a lot of help, but she will listen to Jame’s recommendations.”

“Have you heard how he is?” Sabine asks.

Hera touches her cheek. “Not a lot. He isn’t exactly in favor with Command right now. I don’t know if is the fact that he can work with Garm Bel Iblis, or just that he and Draven seem to be in an eternal pissing match,” she finishes. “The fact that Lassa left and went back to pirating was kind of devastating for them. Dani, especially.” She looks away. “I think he has lost more of his Force-sensitivity. He may have lost his faith about Ahsoka.”

“It’s been over two years,” Sabine says.

“I know,” Hera replies. “You heard what Ezra alluded to in the Temple?” she asks.

“Yeah. I did. Should we tell Jame?”

“I don’t know. I’ll make that decision. I think that faith is a powerful thing. It may be what is keeping him and his group going.”

Sabine nods. Hera breaks free, giving her a last kiss on her forehead. “Go to Ketsu. Take some time and talk with her. You might need each other.”

Sabine grins mischievously. “That will probably lead to something else. Always seems to,” she snarks.

Hera looks at the ceiling of the ex-Imperial mobile command center. “Great. My kid is having sex.”

Their shared laughter rises in the morning.

+=+=+=+=+=

Rex stares out over the plains where the Jedi Temple used to stand. His dark eyes are locked on the horizon. He closes them as he thinks of his brother, of his easy laughter the fifteen years that they had spent together; of the comfortable camaraderie of the AT-TE on Seelos. Rex thinks of Gregor and Wolffe’s deeper relationship—finding comfort in each other.

He thinks of the man making his way to Lothal now, according to Hera’s comm. A man who Rex had roused from his crushing grief, from a life of drunkenness and a death-wish after other clones had murdered his wife and unborn son, nearly two decades ago to rescue Gregor from a vile Imperial experiment.

A rescue that had given the ex-Jedi a new purpose. Especially when he had found that another lived from the horrors of Order 66. One that he had shared life in the Temple with as her clanmaster and her friend. A young woman that the ex-Jedi had shared the light with when they were both older, at the end of the war.

Rex brushes the tears from his eyes. He lifts the old helmet from his bag. A Republic Commando helmet; different from his Phase I that he had refused to give up. He places it on the cairn of stones. There was no body, but he could only hope that the universal representation of a grave, with Gregor’s name inscribed on a longer piece of stone, would suffice. The lettering was completed by the young artist-warrior of his new crew and family.

One that is missing two of their own now. He starts as he hears a noise.

A huge lothwolf, one of the ones that had helped them fight the Imperials at the Sanctuary pads up. Rex is careful not to make a move to the pair of deeces on his belt. The lothwolf calmly walks up and sits next to Gregor’s memorial.

Rex sees his ears perk up as a whine comes into his own hearing. The _Phantom II_ , the old Separatist shuttle, maneuvers in for a landing. The lothwolf doesn’t move, only watches as the rear hatch opens.

The entire crew walks towards him. Hera, Sabine, Zeb, Mart, Ketsu, Chopper, even Hondo and Melch, as well as the ex-Imperial, Kallus.

Rex’s heart stops as Wolffe walks off last, his face blank in his grief. He had sworn to Rex that he would not come here.

Hera walks up to him. She looks at the makeshift memorial. She places a tiny piece of carved wood next to the helmet, then rests her hand on the visor.

Sabine starts with Rex. She rests her head against his chest. For a moment, he remembers a picture of Blackthorn’s late wife, Sabine’s aunt. He smiles softly against her hair.

The cantankerous, borderline sociopathic astromech brings his right manipulator arm up to his dome at Gregor’s helmet. Rex’s vision blurs. Chopper had served with Ahsoka and a squadron of clone pilots briefly on Ryloth, before he was lost and found by Hera, he remembered.

He opens his eyes. Wolffe stands in front of him. Sabine moves away, touching Wolffe on his arm. Rex and Wolffe stare at one another.

Finally, Rex breaks the silence. “I thought that you weren’t coming, brother,” he says quietly.

Wolffe looks away, his one eye misty as well. “I almost didn’t, Rex,” he says. “Couldn’t face you or him.”

“You know Gregor. Nothing really bothered him too much. As long as we were close by. Just like he told me that Croft and his wife looked out for him just like as we did.”

“He told me, too. Told me that he carried her body to her grave,” Wolffe says.

A roaring noise brings their attention to the sky. Rex smiles for the first time in days, as Gregor’s loss had hit him. An old _Consular_ light frigate moves over the sky, heading towards the spaceport in Capital City. Rex nods.

He notices that Hera and Sabine are looking up at the ship. It was time to greet another of Gregor’s family. Rex closes his eyes and begins his Remembrance. He hears Wolffe start as well. He hears a higher pitched voice, the Mando’a inflection perfect with the slight accent of Krownest. The two of them recite one name together; joined by a high Ryl accent. They use the name that they knew him by, not his birth name.

_Kanan Jarrus._

None of them recite the name of another, a young native and protector of this world.

Only Rex whispers another name. The name of his Commander. A young woman who he now mourns as lost, in spite of the faith of the man in the ship approaching for a landing.

_Ahsoka Tano._


	4. another minute of your life. Follow this to its natural conclusion—dead end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two families start to come together.

**Lothal Main Spaceport**   
**Alliance Corvette _Sloane_**

Jame Blackthorn slowly wakens from the darkness. He sits up suddenly as he realizes that a bright sun flows through the cabin’s ports. He curses as he comes fully awake. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. He realizes that he is dressed only in his shorts.

He didn’t remember pulling his trousers or shirt off. Blackthorn has vague memories of Nola and Meglann snuggling in to either side of him before falling asleep themselves.

The door to the head opens. His eyes widen as Nola Vorserrie steps out, a towel wrapped around her. Without a word, she drops the towel, her eyes challenging him.

He shakes his head as he feels his lips quirk upward in a grin. “So where is the Captain, No-no?” he asks. He allows his eyes to move upward over her familiar body, as she pulls her underwear up. Blackthorn’s eyes track over a large bruise on the right side of her ribcage. He takes in a deep breath, but says nothing at her look. 

“She’s already on the bridge,” Nola says. A smirk that mirrors one that a huntress used to give him flows to her sharp features. “We washed each other’s backs before she went on duty,” she says.

“Great. Why wasn’t I invited? More importantly, why wasn’t I told that we had arrived?”

“Probably because you needed the sleep. Just as we did. We were all threatened with sedation if we didn’t get it. You needed it more, Jame,” she finishes. She pads over to him and pulls him tightly into her arms.

He draws in a deep breath at the touch of her skin. “I do feel better, Nola,” he admits, “but don’t presume to ‘manage’ me, Colonel,” he says sharply.

She rests her forehead against his, then slowly, deliberately crosses her dark eyes. She pulls a two fingered salute to her brow with her left hand. “Aye, aye, sir,” she says. “Of course, you might have to get Meglann’s crew to stop managing her, as well.”

He rolls his eyes in response. “Okay, Colonel Smartass. Point taken.” He moves his lips to hers, melding them, moving his tongue gently into her mouth. “You think tonight we might stay awake together? Maybe talk, or something, since you have made it clear you are not in my chain and are the same rank as me?” he asks. 

He feels her smile against his mouth. “I think we might,” she says. “Captain Florlin might want to join the conversation.” He starts to protest before she kisses him again. “Don’t give me that chain of command poodoo again. We aren’t exactly a textbook military organization. Never have been. She cares for you as much as anyone.” Her eyes glisten as she looks down. “She has lost as much as any of us.”

After a moment, she pulls away. She yanks his shorts down. “Time for you to get a shower. After that, you have a date with Heg’s bacta cocktail for your shoulder.” She grins. “Do we need to get Drop to hold you down?”

He matches her grin. “Naw,” he replies. “I’ll be a big boy and not cry, if you promise me some candy.”

Nola laughs. “Never heard it called that before.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Drop walks out into the bright sunlight. He smiles as his eyes fall on the throngs of smiling people. None of them seem concerned right at this moment that the Empire could return and take all of this away. He moves away from the spaceport, his dark amber eyes taking in the damage that seems to be prevalent all over the capital city. Wreckage from a brief Imperial bombardment, before the Spectres and their allies could get the shields up.

At a cost of one of his brother’s life—a brother who had not fallen to the madness of Order 66. He closes his eyes as he thinks of the last time he had seen Gregor. On a former Republic medical station, repurposed by Gregor and two others; one of them familiar and dear to Drop. The other....

He had never met Blackthorn’s wife, but he had seen the despair on Gregor’s face when she was lost. He had struggled with running down the corridor to Croft, as he had known him, taking him in his arms as he stared at his future lying on the deck. 

Drop had not, as he had looked at the small child standing next to him on the station. One amber eye and one royal blue eye gazing at him as he struggled with his emotions. The one blue orb a legacy of one who had looked at him like that, her own eyes in a bronze face under dark hair. He shakes the memories away, focusing on the present. 

Drop feels the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A sensation as if someone is paying particularly close attention to him. He turns and sees a single eye locked on him. A single eye in a face similar, but slightly different than the one he sees in the mirror every morning. The face of millions of others.

He nods slightly. “Wolffe,” he says. 

The clone commander continues to stare at him, the cybernetic version of his eye, a long ago gift from a Separatist witch. Finally, Wolffe shakes his head, as if sending memories to the depths of his mind.

Drop walks over to him. He pulls Wolffe into his arms. Wolffe stiffens, but after a moment, relaxes, wrapping his own arms around the larger man.

“It is good to see you, _Vod_ ,” Drop says. “I am sorry about Gregor. He was a good man.” He looks down. “There are not many of us left,” he finishes.

“I know, brother,” Wolffe says. He grins. “How come you always seemed to look younger than the rest of us, even though you were two years older? You look even younger than the other Nulls.”

“Deal with the devil,” Drop says with a grin, running his fingers through his still dark-streaked gray hair.

“So how is Croft?” Wolffe ask, the grin morphing into a smirk. Their laughter, a suddenly rare thing among their kind, rises into the morning air.

The laughter fades as they think of losses. “He is living,” Drop says.

“Rex told me and Gregor that he thinks Ahsoka is still alive,” Wolffe says.

“Yeah. Man’s got a lot of faith, but I’ve seen it tested in the last few months.” He looks over at several citizens struggling to lift a section of shattered wall, courtesy of Admiral Thrawn’s bombardment. He walks over to them, slinging his old blaster carbine. 

Their eyes widen as they take in his size and the Alliance insignia on his foul-weather smock. Not a few of them stare at his face and Wolffe’s. Both men turn and apply their backs to the wall.

The group of citizens are effusive in their thanks. 

“So where’s Rex?” Drop asks as they move away from the offers of food and drink from the group, holding up their hands and smiling politely.

“I don’t know. He might be at command. He has been distant since we liberated this place. I think that Gregor and the two Jedi hit him hard.”

“They kind of do that to us,” Drop says quietly. “At least the good ones do.”

“Yeah. I think that he holds his own faith about Bridger.” His face falls. “I don’t think he holds as much about Ahsoka.”

Drop nods after a moment. He puts his arm back around Wolffe’s shoulders. “Come on. I’m supposed to be inspecting the damage. Let’s make our way to the command center.”

The two men walk away, their arms about one another. They ignore the stares at their near identical faces from passerby.


	5. at the coast, the pier at Gulfport where riggings of shrimp boats are loose stitches

**Lothal Spaceport**

Garazeb Orrelios looks up from his work on rewiring the long range sensors outside Command. He glances at Alexsandr Kallus, who is running the calibration checks on a datapad. Kallus follows his eyes, as they move away.

Jame Blackthorn stands watching the work, the slight breeze ruffling his gray hair and graying beard. Zeb’s yellow eyes narrow as he takes in the Corellian’s garb. He realizes that Blackthorn isn’t wearing his Mando armor; is only clad in rough spacer’s clothing, rather than the dark green breastplate with its two handprints. Handprints from two different women of Clan Wren; including the one who lives down the passageway from Zeb. A young woman trying to decipher what his roommate had meant before he disappeared.

_I’m counting on you, Sabine._

Zeb shakes his head, focusing on the Commodore again. The lines in his face have grown, but it is his eyes that have changed so much, since the Lasat had last seen him. Only a month after their ‘mystical mom’, as he had called her, had not come back from Malachor. The green eyes are tired; have lost none of their warmth, but there is something missing in them.

 _Hope_. The hope that everyone had seen in him, when everyone else thought that Ahsoka lay dead on the Sith World. A world now seemingly unreachable in this universe. He wipes his hands on a rag and nods at Kallus. “Need a minute, Alex,” he rumbles. “Got to go see about somebody who looks about as dead as I feel.”

He doesn’t see Kallus’s eyes fall as he walks towards the Corellian.

+=+=+=+=+=

Blackthorn looks at the command center, at the Lothali working to bring it online. At the people of this world working tirelessly to bring order from the chaos left by the Imperials. A large shadow falls over him. He grins, wondering if he will receive a greeting, or whether his arms will be torn from their sockets, as the producer of the shadow had once promised to do. A part of his mind responds with dark humor. _Might solve the need for twice-weekly quadruple injections._

“Hello, Zeb,” he says without turning.

“Hello, Blackthorn. Still an asshole?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Blackthorn replies without thought. “Or what day it is.”

“Yes, he is. But he’s our asshole,” comes a warm voice.

Nola Vorserrie walks up, looking only slightly up at Zeb. Blackthorn sees the yellow eyes glance down at the rank plaque on her chest. Nola holds her hand out. “Nola Vorserrie. Professional babysitter.”

Zeb grins and takes her hand, engulfing it in his. “I’ve been accused of needing one,” he says. “But I could see where this little man might need a full time minder to change his nappies.”

“I’m standing right here,” Blackthorn says. He changes the subject as quickly as he can. “So how’s it going?”

“Not bad,” Zeb says. “We’re having trouble getting long-range sensors up and running. Could use some help on that.” He grins and looks over at the man working on the calibration. “We’re good, but we could use some adult supervision, other than Kallus, here.”

Blackthorn turns to look at Kallus. His eyes narrow. “You’re ISB,” he says. It is not a question.

Kallus walks over, his own eyes narrowed. “Used to be. Who’s asking?” he says coldly.

“Blackthorn,” Jame says simply. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nola and Zeb looking at each other, rolling their eyes.

“Come on, Jame. Put it back in your pants. You haven’t had a problem with former ISB agents before,” Nola says. “One has pulled your ass out of the fire on several occasions.”

Kallus nods as both men relax. “So you’re Tempest. Heard a bit about you.” He finally smiles, an expression that lightens his face. “Usually accompanied by a curse on Yavin 4.” He offers his hand. “I’m Fulcrum.”

Blackthorn feels his heart twist at the words. He looks away, then shakes the proffered hand. He feels Nola’s hand on his back. He shakes his head imperceptibly.

“Good to meet you,” he manages. “Where’s Hera?”

“In the command center,” Zeb replies.

Without another word he turns and walks into the structure.

+=+=+=+=+=

Kallus turns to Nola. “What was that all about?”

Zeb answers for her. “He and the first Fulcrum were close. They worked together for years, before something happened. I don’t know what. It’s nothing personal, mate,” he finishes.

Nola remains silent as Zeb and Kallus turn back to their work. She closes her eyes, as she thinks of the last time she had seen the first Fulcrum.

+=+=+=+=+=

 **4 Years Before**  
**Son-tuul**

Nola Vorserrie pulls the Tatooine Sunset to her lips; in a vain attempt to pull the last bit of alcohol infused ice to her lips. She sets the glass down and sighs. She pulls her neckerchief off and attempts to wipe the sweat from her face and neck. She reaches down and pulls her tank top away from her chest. _I am really going to need a three day shower and untold liters of electrolyte replacement,_ she thinks. _Probably the Corellian version._

She eyes the male human desultorily moving the lower part of his body in time to the discordant, music emitting from the speakers of the sound system. A sound system that was probably old from the time of Naboo Trade Crisis, two years after her birth.

A part of her is envious at the dancer’s attire, or sincere lack thereof. He at least doesn’t appear to be sweating at all. She wonders if the owners of the fine establishment might need a new dancer.

Thoughts of sitting in a strip club send her memories back even further. Memories of her first meeting with the rebel agent named Fulcrum, only three years or so after the fall of the Republic. She closes her eyes, willing the memory away, as she concentrates on the present meeting.

A shadow falls over her small table in the rear. She smiles softly as Ahsoka Tano, that self-same Fulcrum, stands over her. Her friend— _her sister of the heart_ , in Dani Faygan’s Zeltron parlance, looks down at her with only a slight smile, rather than the full-blown trademarked Smirk.

“You’re thinking about Rodia, aren’t you?” Ahsoka says.

“Yeah, I am. Remembering how you could piss me off in the space of two minutes of knowing you,” Nola replies.

“It’s a gift,” Ahsoka says as she slides into the booth. Nola realizes that she is wearing her tunic without the armor that she had found somewhere, and without the gray sleeves that she used to disguise the distinctive white markings; markings that she had gained more of with age. The agent is wearing her blasters in her shoulder holsters, rather than the belt with her lightsabers and other armor. Only a light scarf covers her montrals and most of her lekku.

A bit more of the Smirk appears. “So, were you thinking of auditioning? To relieve the heat?” she asks.

“Thought about it,” Nola replies. “But I figured you had more experience than me and it wasn’t worth even trying.”

“Yeah. Sure am glad Jabba didn’t recognize me on the sail barge,” Ahsoka says.

Nola reaches out and runs her hand over Ahsoka’s bare arm, ending with a clasp of the warrior’s hands. Her eyes fall on a healing cut on the back of the right hand. She shakes her head and strokes the back of the hand. “I’ve missed you,” she whispers.

“Me too, No-no,” Ahsoka says. “How is the acquisitions business?”

“I’m not in it any more. I work for some of the new military officers. Trying to establish a General Staff,” she finishes. “I am a half-assed logistics planner.” As Ahsoka had once taught her, she leans in close, moving her lips to Ahsoka’s left lek, appearing to any observers that they are engaged less in conversation than more in about to find a hidden alcove for more furtive activities.

Both of their increased respirations reinforce their cover. Nola notices and grins. “It has been a couple of years since our ‘annual wrestling match’,” she says. “I don’t guess—,” she starts, remembering some of those brief embraces over the last ten years.

Ahsoka smiles. “I wish, Nola,” she says, “but I’m heading out after I get the info from you. Got a new cell on Lothal that bears close watching. They’re getting bolder.”

Nola watches as Ahsoka turns her left hand over at the tiny datachip now in it. Ahsoka’s smile is broad. “For a staff weenie, you’ve kept your tradecraft up.” she says.

Nola looks down, blushing. “I still do a bit in the field. Especially between Command and Jame’s group.” She looks up, seeing a shadow over Ahsoka’s blue eyes. “How long?” Nola asks.

“It’s been about a year since I’ve seen him,” Ahsoka says. Her voice chokes slightly. After a moment, she looks up. Her eyes are calm, almost unreadable.

Nola remembers the only time that she had ever met Shaak Ti, the Jedi Master who had helped Jame rescue her from a Separatist hell, when she had been all of fifteen years old. Ti, who had also been the love of Dani Faygan’s life, had shown this same calm serenity. A serenity broken by her compassion and the look of love for Dani and her former Padawan, a Corellian-Mandalorian known then as Taliesin Croft—now known by his birthname and serving as the third-ranking officer in the nascent Alliance Fleet.

Ahsoka Tano now has that same look of serenity. She had always been calm when needed, but with a coiled energy and restlessness that remained from the young Rebel that Nola had first met.

Nola touches her cheek. Ahsoka’s eyes sink. “Before that, how long?” Nola asks.

Ahsoka doesn’t reply for several moments. When she does, she refuses to meet Nola’s eyes. “About twice a year. Ever since we were ambushed at Midlothian, by that task force looking for me.” She finally looks back at her former handler. “We made the decision to stay away, for me to move around more, rather than being stationed with them.”

Nola narrows her eyes. “As I recall, you made that decision. There was no ‘we’ involved, according to him.”

Ahsoka’s eyes flash at her. For a moment, a reminder of the younger Fulcrum, flares to the surface. Just as quickly, it is gone. Ahsoka calms again.

Nola thinks how much she has missed that fire, even when it was directed at her.

“I know, Nola,” Ahsoka says. “But I saw his injuries; the injuries to the others. I couldn’t let them hurt for me.”

Nola grits her teeth, but matches her calm. “According to Heg, you weren’t exactly in the best of health after fighting that damned commando Admiral.” She touches Ahsoka’s center lek, a long, very thin, almost invisible line on the right side. “He said he had never seen as deep of a wound on a Togruta lek before that was survived,” she says. “When you stole that A-Wing.”

“Please, Nola. This is hard enough as it is,” she says, her voice with a pleading quality that she had never heard from this woman.

Nola finally nods, taking both of her hands, much cooler than her own, in hers. A noise at the door of the cantina distracts them. Nola feels Ahsoka’s hands leave hers, moving closer to her blasters. At her look, Nola moves her right hand to the back of her belt, just under her tank top.

She looks at the door. Four Imperial stormtroopers stand in the door, their blasters at the ready. A uniformed officer, wearing a long-skirted coat with a Captain’s insignia, stands in the door. She looks around the room with cold blue eyes. A metal collar drops from her chin down to the neckline of the silk tank top visible under the open coat. A shock of white hair flops just above the blue eyes.

“This establishment is closed, by order of the Moff of this sector,” she says in a clear voice. “The spaceport is also temporarily closed, while we clear this world of any Rebel activity.” The woman looks away as a Rodian breaks for the door, the Son-tuul Pride insignia prominent on his chest.

At least four blaster bolts transfix him. Nola is yanked up by her hand as the Imperials’ attention is drawn to their target. She feels herself lifted in the air as Ahsoka leaps straight up, silently. They are both suddenly standing in the street in the alley behind the joint. Nola is not exactly sure how they got there. She has a vague recollection of the frame of an open upper story window flashing by. A quick listen and check confirms that everyone’s attention was drawn to the judicial murder that had just occurred.

She sways, bringing her hand to her head. Ahsoka pulls her into her arms to steady her. “Whoa, Princess. Forgot that you hate my flying,” she says, the Smirk once again fully evident. Nola realizes that Ahsoka’s legs and feet are bare, rather than covered by leggings and boots. She starts at the nickname; one she hadn’t heard in years. A nickname for a know-it-all ex-Handmaiden, responsible for keeping Fulcrum alive, before there were more than a handful of cells.

“Didn’t know you felt the heat that much, pain-in-my-ass,” Nola replies, a matching expression on her sharp features.

“Isn’t the heat for me. It’s the humidity,” Ahsoka replies. “Guess I won’t be getting off this swamp today. We can either head to one of our ships, unless—,” she trails off.

Nola rolls her eyes. “I have a room. It has a nice big bathtub and even has good air circulation. Got some chilled Toniray there.”

It is Ahsoka’s turn to roll her eyes. “Only the best for my Princess. Are you expensing this?”

“Of course. To the Imperial Advisor on Corellia, this month.”

For a moment their laughter relieves all thoughts of separation and longing—of pain.

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola realizes that Zeb and Alexsandr Kallus are watching her as she comes back to the present. She feels the tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She wipes them on her sleeve. She moves towards the command center. As she passes Garazeb Orrelios, he reaches out and pulls her into his arms.

The tears flow again against the massive chest.


	6. in a sky threatening rain. Cross over the man-made beach, 26 miles of sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Families are reunited; words are spoken, both easy and hard. A possible threat.

Hera looks up from the short-range sensor screen as the door to the command center opens. She steadies herself against the back of Mart’s chair. She allows herself to stand, placing her hands at the small of her back.

She wills the nausea to move out of her consciousness. Hera smiles gently as Jame Blackthorn brings his fingertips to the brim of his cap in salute.

She straightens and brings her own fingers to her flight cap.

He walks closer to her. She remembers when they had first met. She had saluted him, and then, seeing the stricken look on his face, had done something she had never done with a superior officer, as her mind had registered at the time.

He copies her movement of two years ago. She rests her head against his chest as he brings her into a tight embrace.

“General,” he whispers into her earcone. “I am at your disposal.”

She is aware of Mart’s hard look at the other technicians, turning them back to their duties.

“I’m so sorry about Kanan, Hera,” he says. “He was a good man.”

She closes her eyes against the drab uniform shirt that he wears, willing the tears not to come to the forefront, as she has been able to for days now, saving them for when she was alone with Chopper.

Hera breaks away from the Corellian. For a moment, she looks into his green eyes. A brief picture flashes into her memory. Of Kanan’s blue-green eyes morphing back to their glory from the silver of his blindness.

Just before the flames swallowed him.

Hera shakes her own memories away. She concentrates on Blackthorn’s face, of how much he has changed since she had seen him during the Hypori mission. His face has more lines in it, but they seem to be lines of physical pain. His features are physically composed. She forces herself to look at the similar eyes. That is where she sees her heart’s pain mirrored in his.

They both reach the same conclusion; that they have jobs to do, at the same time. Hera pats his chest as he releases her.

“What did you bring me, Commodore?” she asks.

He grins, a crooked expression that she is sure an ex-Jedi had treasured in the past. “Just me, General. Me and a tiny ship with a damned skilled crew.”

She matches his grin. “Makes the universe go around. Didn’t take this place with much more.”

He laughs. A sound that Hera is sure is very rare—maybe only shared with a few people. _No,_ she thinks, _his crew will see it, even if he doesn’t feel it._

Hera thinks back to a conversation only she and Sabine had been privileged to hear from Ezra, after his time in the Jedi temple. Of who he had seen and met. She is sure that they had not gotten the full story. She brings herself back to the present.

“I don’t have much. I would bring my group here if you need it, Hera,” he says. The grin returns. “I do have a a civil affairs officer and a log-planner that could be a help to you in rebuilding.” The grin broadens. “If she doesn’t irritate the shit out of you.”

Hera’s laughter joins his. “She will be appreciated.” She sobers. “As far as the group goes, I’ll hold off, for now. I know you don’t have many fans in Command.”

He grits his teeth. “I’m okay. It seems to be only Draven. Dodonna has gotten over me punching his ops officer. Especially since Nola proved that he was pretty much an empty uniform.”

“Nevertheless, I want to prove to them that the people of Lothal can hold their world. For Ezra,” she finishes.

He nods. “Someday, you’ll have to tell me what happened. I don’t have a lot of Force sense, but maybe I can help in some way.”

Her reply is lost as a multicolored blur nearly bowls him off of his feet, in a move reminiscent of another, somewhat older warrior.

The patented attack hug.

Hera grins as he places his face in Sabine’s now-somewhat sedate hair. The grin turns softer as she sees the glimpse of tears in his eyes; his arms holding his niece tightly to him.

+=+=+=+=+=

Wolffe climbs out of the A-wing trainer that the Bucket had brought with her. His eye locks with Drop as the Null powers down the engines. Both brothers turn towards the small encampment located near Gregor’s memorial.

Drop walks ahead of Wolffe as he sees the figure sitting on a small campstool in front of the lone tent. Wolffe hurries as he sees the expression on the other joopa-slinger as he spots the giant clone.

“I see that we really need to tighten up immigration,” Rex says in that dry version of their shared voice. “They let anyone on Lothal these days.”

“Probably needed their standards raised,” Drop says in a slightly different voice, but one just as dry. He stops before Rex. Rex stares up at him, his eyes unreadable.

Drop holds his hand out without a word. Rex takes him and levers himself to his feet, finishing with brief perfunctory shake, then makes to sit down and return to his work.

Whatever that is.

Drop walks over to Gregor’s cairn. He bows his head for a brief moment, then brings his hand up to his brow in salute. He spins on his heels and returns to his inspection of Rex, who is in his chair again.

“So what are you doing out here playing with yourself, when there is work to be done rebuilding this burg?” he asks.

Wolffe winces, then stops himself. The part of him that had been Plo Koon’s bad old man relishes the thought of a good old cathartic ass-whipping, on either brother’s part.

“You’re one to talk. You’re the brother who serves under the man who is a goddamned champion at feeling sorry for himself when he loses someone.”

Drop grows still, but keeps his face calm. “Haven’t seen much of that, this time, Rex,” he says quietly. “All I see is him living. Maybe doing more than sitting out here on his ass puttering around, waiting for the march.”

It is Rex’s turn to grow still, his bearded face less than calm at the mention of an abbreviated form of a Mandalorian euphemism for death. Wolffe mentally calculates who he would bet on if Rex exploded up from his seat and tackled the ex-commando. He sighs and makes himself ready to intervene instead. He grins to himself. _May take me a moment to get to them. I am old, after all._

He smiles as Rex nods. “You may be right, Drop,” he says after a moment. “But do you call refusing to let someone go after all of the evidence tells him that she is dead, living?”

Wolffe sees Drop’s broad shoulders slump for a moment. “I don’t know that I don’t, Rex. I call it faith. Faith in his own feelings. It’s what our _jetti_ constantly preached to each other. _To trust their feelings._ I heard that young woman that you have apparently given up on, tell him that many times. Just as he told her to keep the faith.” He looks away at the horizon, then closer at the loth-wolf resting near Gregor’s cairn, two loth-cats cavorting over his patient form. “Just like the true namesake of our ship told him many times during the war, when things were about to turn to shit for us.”

Wolffe knows that he sees the laughing face of a young Republic naval officer in his mind’s eye.

Rex does get up at the accusation of surrender, his fists clenched. Drop looks at him sadly, but refrains from taking any defensive stance. Rex takes a deep breath, lets it out. “You may be right. He may be the sanest person among us, with his faith,” he says.

Drop grins. “I wouldn’t go that far. Least not in earshot of him,” he replies.

Rex’s beard twitches in his own brief grin. It fades as Drop sobers.

“I won’t say it hasn’t been tested. I think his Force-hoodoo has gotten worse. I don’t see that look on his face that he would get after I think he and Mouse communicated. Or whatever the hell it was.” He closes his eyes. “I think that his faith has been tested,” he finishes.

Rex nods, placing his hands on the larger figure’s shoulders. Drop places his right hand over one of Rex’s.

“The odd thing it, none of the crew see it. He laughs with them, cares about them, mourns when they die, holds them when they are hurt. To them, he is the same. No one that I know of finds it odd that he thinks someone is alive that logic says is dead. Even with his faith tested, he still leads his crew,” Drop says. He takes a deep breath. “Only the ones closest to him, about a half-dozen of us, knows that he is losing faith.”

Rex is silent as he appears to take in Drop’s words. Drop turns away; takes several steps.

Wolffe follows him, takes his shoulders in his hands awkwardly. Wolffe’s eyes grow wide as he realizes that Rex has walked up. The three brothers embrace tightly.

Wolffe looks up at a roaring noise from above. Rex and Drop follow suit. Four bright lights, trailing smoke and fire streak over them from north to south. The three soldiers break apart, shielding their eyes against the sunlight. A sound of impact is heard and felt.

“Does Lothal get that much meteor activity?” Drop asks.

“No,” Rex replies. “Never heard of multiple hits in one area.”

The three of them look at one another. “Ezra told us that the Empire was really interested in the Temple.”

The three of them move towards the camp and its transport.

+=+=+=+=+=

Jame looks at Sabine as he holds her away from him after their deep embrace. He had heard the Mando’a words whispered in his ear. “You remind me so much of your mother and your aunt,” he says, in reply.

She grins. “Guess there aren’t many better women that you could compare me to, _ba’vodu,”_ she says, using the word in her birth tongue for his relationship to her.

“Nope. Even though your mother has offered on a few occasions to relieve me of those parts that particularly vexed her. Or to hold me down while your aunt did it.”

“Don’t worry,” Sabine says. “According to my father, she offered to cut his balls off just after Tristan was born. Something about an inordinately large head that none of the Wrens had.”

His feels the laughter bubble up. “Well, you know what they call that particular offer of a female to a male on _Mand’ayim_?” he asks.

“Foreplay,” she finishes.

He notices Hera smiling at the two of them, nodding her head at their shared laughter. Something in short supply lately.

One other has walked in that doesn’t appear as overjoyed. The figure pulls her _buy’ce_ off, revealing close cropped hair, dark bronze skin, and violet eyes that recall Jame’s master, Shaak Ti, as a foretold master hunter.

Just as they do on his child of the hunt, Cubreem. Eyes that he is sure that Sabine has stared into, on a faraway world’s stretch of sand, just inside a perimeter. A perimeter that prevented gigantic spiders from eating them both.

Sabine notices the slightly older woman. She jerks her head towards Covenant at the woman.

“Uncle, this is Ketsu Onyo. A friend from the Imperial Academy.”

Jame nods at the young woman, holding out his hand. She relents, smiles, and takes the hand.

“Hello, _Buurenaar-Alor_ ,” Ketsu says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Jame starts at the Mando version of their nickname for him. _The Storm-King._

He sees Sabine looking thunderously at her. Ketsu nods, then turns and stalks out, her shoulders stiff as she dons her helmet.

Blackthorn looks curiously at Sabine. She avoids his eyes. He catches the eyeroll from Hera and the young man at the sensor suite.

“So how are those two twits who fly your fighters?” she asks. He smirks at her changing of the subject—slightly.

“They’re fine. Jamelyn is in charge of everything. Don’t know about Talle. She has been on Yavin, with Blue Squadron. Probably will have Antoc Merrick’s job before long.” He grins mischievously. “Cubreem is here with us. If you’d like to find a beach somewhere,” he laughs.

He is careful not to rub his chest where she had hit him. He sees her eyes grow thoughtful for a moment. His heart twists as he remembers that look from another. A look that promised mayhem or chaos for whoever was around after she had finished thinking.

He manages not to whisper her name, as it sounds in his mind. _J’oh._

“Might be fun, Uncle,” she says.

He is about to reply when the young sensor operator calls Hera over. “General, I’m picking up unusual meteor activity on the short-range,” he says.

Hera, Jame, and Sabine walk over to him. “What have you got, Mart?” Hera asks.

“I’ve picked up clusters of four meteors that have landed in three locations in the last five minutes.”

“Four? Exactly four?” Jame asks.

The young man’s eyes widen. “Yessir. Exactly a minute and half apart.”

Jame looks at Hera. They nod at one another.

Nola walks up. She touches Hera on the cheek, then turns to Jame. “Drop reports that he, Rex, and Wolffe were near one of the impacts. Near the Temple site.”

Jame opens his comlink. “Meglann. Spool up the engines. You been listening to this?”

“Yes, Commodore. What do you need?”

“Head out to the furthest impact area. Hit whatever you see that looks guilty.” He grins. “I don’t think you’ll find anything innocent out there.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she says.

“What about the third one?” Nola asks.

He turns to Hera. “General, can I borrow your runabout? Maybe Sabine and Zeb? Kallus?”

“No, but you can ride with me,” she says, her green eyes narrowing.

He smiles disarmingly. “Hera, you’re the one that will need to pick up the pieces if this goes south. The weight of being in command—you can’t always go charging off where Jedi fear to tread.”

He can see the steam rising from her lekku, but she nods.

“I’ll take good care of them, General,” he says.

He turns and is shoved backwards by his civil affairs officer. “Goes for you too, sport,” Nola says.

He grins. “Nope. Not in command. Just a glorified errand boy, Colonel. And that’s Commodore Sport, to you.”

“Okay, ‘Commodore’. But might I remind you that you have a broken ass that I have seen you hobbling around on for years in the morning—,”

“It’s my hip. Plus, it ain’t morning. Feel like I need to stretch my legs.”

He looks at Hera, who looks as if she is about to rain fire down on him and all his future generations. “Everybody here knows what you can do and what you will do for them, Hera. But this what your job is. Mine is to carry out your wishes. Besides,” he says, “if it makes you feel any better, I am usually the one being told to stay behind and ‘Commodore’.” He pauses, looks at his feet, taking a deep breath. “I will follow your wishes and your orders, General Syndulla.”

“It doesn’t make me feel any better,” she says, after several second’s pause, her lips still in a tight line. “Bring them back, Blackthorn,” she finishes.

Jame nods and turns as Nola hands him a case. He pulls a pistol from its foam rest, then inserts it into the receiver of the carbine that followed in his left. A minute later, he has extended the barrel and a stock into a full sniper’s rifle. Nola hefts the carbine version that she has built.

He feels Hera’s eyes on his back as they leave.


	7. dumped on the mangrove swamp—buried terrain of the past. Bring only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight begins.

Alexsandr Kallus crabs right from one rock to the other, as he watches the smoke clear from the first impact area that they had come to. He glances over at Zeb, who is holding his bo-rifle at high ready. The staff puke, _Vorserrie_ , is angled out from Zeb’s right.

The one and a half Mandalorians are nowhere to be seen. Kallus remembers the quick briefing that Blackthorn had given. Or rather, he had.

“I am sure that Captain Kallus know what these clusters signify. I’ll let him brief us.”

“Right. There is a new Imperial protocol for probe droids. It has recently been enacted. They will send them out in clusters of four; at least three clusters in the first five minutes. If we can’t destroy them, or keep them from transmitting any intel, in thirty minutes, then we are going to be ass-deep in Imperials,” he had said.

“What happens after thirty minutes, if they don’t transmit?” Nola had asked.

“They’ll wait another twenty-four hours before sending more. Hopefully, we can have our long range sensor net up by then, if any of those so called technicians from the Corellians are any good.”

All had turned to the Corellian in charge. “They’ll do what they need to, jackboot,” he had said coolly. “You worry about your own job.”

Kallus senses movement to his left, just as he opens his comlink. The rock to the left of his face explodes, sending chips into his eyes and bringing him to the present. He has a vague sense of a floating, spider-like shape in his blurred vision. He hears the spring-like sound of Zeb’s bo-rifle discharging, as well as the higher pitch of an A280 carbine.

The probe droid on his front slides back under cover, its built-in blasters unable to be brought to bear. Kallus sees Nola and Zeb splitting and moving out towards another outcropping of rocks, closer to the droid’s position. He can hear them talking to one another on the net.

They suddenly reverse direction as blaster fire opens from their flank. Kallus smirks as Zeb tackles Nola, bringing her back to his position. Kallus feels sorry for Zeb as he sees the woman’s dark eyes flashing. She doesn’t dwell on the large furry thing lying on her, as she brings her carbine up and opens fire on their flank. Zeb fires on the original droid’s position.

Kallus realizes that that his eyes are somewhat clear. He flips himself and begins to crawl back the way he came.

“What the hell are you doing?” comes a rumbling voice in his ear.

“Trying to draw off this one. Maybe some day Wren will stop admiring the artwork on her armor and she and the geriatric will start actually killing something.”

“Yeah,” a younger voice snarks in his hear. “Keep thinking that, hardhead. We’re a little busy right now. Plus I am having to carry the senior citizen everywhere, since he left his beskar’gam on the ship and will never admit he needs a jetpack.”

“Darlin’,” their leader says in his drawling inflection. “Your aunt didn’t complain too much about me not having a jetpack. Kinda liked being able to lord it over me that I didn’t.”

“Yeah, well,” Sabine says. “Everybody says she had it bad for you.”

There is silence for a moment. “Think I had it worse for her,” he finally says.

Kallus is about to say something, when a third mounted blaster starts to sound. As close to Kallus as the other two are.

Maybe even closer.

+=+=+=+=+=

Hera listens to the transmission from all three of her teams, as she sits down at the makeshift holotank. As expected, the ground teams are having the most difficulty. Fortunately, Chopper had been able to tap into one of the new comm towers that the Empire has built after destroying the one to prevent Ezra’s broadcast. Her sociopath is working to prevent any transmissions from going out from Lothal.

She punches up a certain code. The holoprojector activates, the face of a human woman, maybe Hera’s age or a little older. Even through the fuzzy hologram, Hera can see the life in the young woman’s dark eyes, as she twists and turns the sidestick in her left hand.

“Oh, hello, General,” she says, her eyes locking on Hera’s image. “Little busy, right now. Two of these damned things’re actually ganging up and doing some damage to my ship. Very rude.”

Hera grins at the calm response from the young woman. “Hope you can break away, soon, Captain,” she says. “Everybody seems to need your help.”

“Well, isn’t that how it usually is?” Captain Florlin asks cheekily. “Work, work, work. Never any rest for me and mine.”

“You know it, Captain. I understand you have a large number of layabout Mandos on your ship. Think you might put them to some actual use?” Hera asks.

Hera sees Meglann smirk at someone out of the pickup’s range. “I think that I might persuade them that it might be in their best interest to pull their fingers out and get a move on.”

“I’m sure that would be most appreciated, Captain.”

Meglann grins wider. “Especially since I can hold it over my Commodore and the Major of Commandos.” She turns and blows a kiss to possibly that same somebody as before. “Only thing is, my super high speed Mandos are all older than even my Commodore. Especially their leader, who brags about said Commodore shitting on him as a baby.”

Hera finds herself laughing at the Captain’s irrepressible attitude. The holocomm disengages.

She turns to Chopper. “Speaking of pulling your fingers out, you got the jamming started yet?” she asks.

The biting _wah-wah-wah_ elicits the eyeroll from her. “Really, Chop? You must be getting old. There was a time that you could’ve had a jamming job finished with one linkage arm deactivated.”

A sound suspiciously like a raspberry sounds from the speakers.

“What was that?” she asks darkly.

A binary ‘nothing’ sounds. Along with the confirmation that the jamming is up and running.

Hera looks at Chopper. _Thanks, buddy_ , she projects to him. _Thanks for the snark, and not going easy on me. I appreciated the care, but this feels more right_. She shakes her head. _Not normal, it may never be normal, again_. She touches his dome gently.

 _Just—right_.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann looks at Fenn Shysa as the Mandos and the Commandos prepare for their egress. He projects his usual sarcastic calm, but she can see something else in his green eyes.

“What is it, Fenn?” she asks quietly.

He shakes out of his reverie. “Nothing, Meglann, darlin’,” he says. He grins, a lazy expression for anyone who doesn’t know him.

Meglann rolls her eyes. She waits for it—.

“Just wondering if my Captain might come off of a little reward for her brave Mandalorian Protector?” he says.

_There it is, as expected._

“I would, but I already have an old Mandalorian in my bed occasionally,” she says. She ignores the wide eyes of her new XO. “Or at least half of one,” she adds.

“Old? I am wounded, dear. What’s three decades among friends?”

“Three lifetimes, in Mandalorian years,” she says calmly. Her eyes grow serious. “What was bothering you just now before you tried the lines on me?” She touches his cheek. “You worried about Jame?”

“Only a bit. Not hearing a lot out of him. He is usually pretty mouthy during a fight. Plus, he left his armor here.”

“I haven’t seen him wear it in months,” Meglann says. Her eyes narrow as a twinge of worry tickles her neck. “Do you think he might be trying not to come back?”

He shakes his head. “No. He has too much to live for. This group’s his life. But if he didn’t have it; I don’t know. _Ahs’ika_ meant a lot to him.”

She smiles at the Mandalorian diminutive of Ahsoka’s name. The name of this particular band of Mandos; an honor for her as well. “She means a lot to me, too,” Meglann says, taking care with the tense of the verb. She reaches up and kisses him. “Go do your worst, Huntress Six. Bring _Akul_ Six and Dragon Actual back to me. _Seoladen_ , as well,” she says, adding an old Corellian code word for the fellow member of a unit of Corellian Hells—the Conduit, a Naboo who is even now watching their leader’s back.

“You got it, Hammer,” he says. “Ina,” he adds; her own old Hell-name. He nods and is gone.

She smiles at the XO. “This isn’t your usual warship, Lexa,” she says. After a moment Lexa grins back.

Meglann raises her voice. “Now let’s see if my gunners can actually start _hitting what they are aiming at. Take out those damned droids!”_

+=+=+=+=+=

Sabine triggers her jetpack as an energy burst strikes the ridge where she had been standing. She yaws left, shoving her shoulder into the droid floating in front of her. “Is it just me, or are we more popular? There’s more than four here, now,” she says as she swerves to avoid another bolt from the one she had tried to shove over. The droid had merely done the mechanical equivalent of a shrug and had attacked her again.

She hears Zeb curse over the net as a bolt comes close to him, singeing a bit of fur on his neck. “I’m getting tired of this. What the hell did you do, Sabine?”

“I didn’t do anything. Ask our fearless leader. Isn’t it usually his fault, Nola?”

“Usually,” Nola replies, just as a burst of fire sends her scrambling for cover, cursing.

“Where is he? We haven’t heard anything out of him since the earliest attack.” Kallus says. “Have they already gotten him? Mr. Shit Hot Commodore?”

“Well, asshole, you keep squawking, they may get a washed-up ISB agent,” Nola says. “Or I will.” She yelps as a probe droid scores a hit.

Sabine notices something as Nola falls silent, dealing with her wound and keeping up the fire. The droid turns away from her, concentrating on Kallus and Zeb as they call out targets. She is about to open her mouth, as someone does it for her.

“Everybody, shut up,” Blackthorn yells over the net.

The other two fall silent. Six droids rise in the air, circling, ignoring the others.

“Come on babies,” her uncle says in a sing-song voice. “Come to daddy, you Imperial pieces of poodoo.”

“They’re guided by comms,” Sabine whispers to herself. She triggers the jetpack out of hover mode, shooting upwards. The probe droids ignore her as Blackthorn continues to talk over his comm.

His continuous chatter starts to lose coherence. She snickers. _Some would say he has never had it._

The six Imperial machines rise to the top of a ridge, much higher than the ridge she had dropped him on. Her eyes widen behind her T-visor. She drops her rangefinder; grins at what she sees.

Just as two of the droids explode, from two quick shots.

The other four droids try to lock on any signals, an instant before they decide to switch tracking to energy bursts.

“Well, you all could shoot these bastards as well, now that I have done most of the heavy lifting,” comes a dry voice with a drawling inflection.

Three beams from the surface and one from higher streak towards the droids. The four beams manage to intersect with one droid. Sabine grimaces. She can almost feel the eyeroll from on high as it explodes.

“Do you think that y’all could each aim for a different one, this time?” Blackthorn asks.

“You’re always complaining, King,” Nola says, proving she is still able to throw down the sarcasm.

The four remaining droids rise, and as one, zoom away.

“Hey, Imps. Come back,” Zeb shouts. All of them join in, trying to draw them back.

“Guess they’re headed to bother someone else,” Nola says.

Sabine continues to hover. She looks at the ridge where the first shots had come from. She removes her helmet; watches as a figure stands, the long rifle pointed muzzle downward. For a moment, their eyes lock.

She gasps as her uncle jumps from the ridge towards the canyon floor.


	8. what you must carry—tome of memory, its random blank pages. On the dock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reconnection. A memory of those gone before on an old veteran.

Ahsoka Tano opens her eyes as a warmth pervades her Force-sense. Her mind’s eye is assaulted by a powerful light—a light in three colors. A light that had been missing from her mind for—well, she doesn’t know for how long. The warmth grows from the gold and purple; she smiles at the unique shade of green behind her eyes. A color of faith; dark green with a strong hint of black.

Her mind reaches out to the light. The light’s warmth competes with the warmth of the crooked grin that appears in her mind. Her mind forms around a word in her birth-language; the trills surrounding the letters of the word. She laughs out loud as she remembers how he had given up trying to pronounce the word, his lower pitched voice mangling it—a mundane word; given meaning for him by his master, Shaak Ti, on that long ago day of her first training Hunt. A training that had not turned out the way anyone had expected.

Ahsoka reaches up and touches the single tooth in her headdress—a headdress originally purchased for that Elder of the Hunt who had named her Padawan.

 _Baa’je, I am here_ , her mind says.

 _I’m here, Runt,_ the warm mind-voice says.

The sensation of joy flows through her body, her heart, and her mind. She realizes that he is fighting. She tries to discern more, but the sheer joy of his presence in her mind overwhelms her other senses. She glimpses high conical mountains, connected by a long ridge of varying heights.

 _You’re on Lothal_ , she thinks.

 _Yep. Good eye_ , cyar’ika.

Unaccountably, the endearment from his mother’s heritage— _sweetheart_ —centers her, as she brings the light into focus. Her eyes lock on the arachnid shapes of Imperial probe droids. She grins as two of them explode in quick succession. Another glimpse; a multicolored blur, a jetpack. A shock of hair that is surprisingly sedate for this young woman as she pulls her bucket off.

 _Bait, tell Ezra—,_ she starts.

Her heart sinks as his does. She senses more pain coming for her, after the revelation of Kanan’s death.

_No!_

The warmth rises again. _I know, Runt. But there might be hope. There always is_ , Jame’s voice sounds in her mind. She feels the lopsided grin cut through her. _Just look at us_.

Ahsoka smiles. The smile suddenly fades as she feels a burst of energy from him; but returns as she realizes what the sensation is. The energy and care of a protector for his responsibilities. For his families—all of them.

 _Gotta run, Runt. Shit’s hitting the fan_ , the light says.

_Wait, Jame. I want to say more...._

A sensation of plummeting overwhelms her. Just before the light and sensations dissolve, she feels a brief spate of panic, followed by two words in his voice.

_Oh, shit._

Her emotions plummet with the fall. For the first time since she had found herself on this fallen world, tears flow freely; the sobs rend the dark air.

+=+=+=+=+=

 _Okay, in a life of really stupid-ass decisions, this one may take the cake_ , Blackthorn thinks as he finds himself without Force-sense, mid-jump. _No. The bubble bath with the Falleen prince might still be the winner._

He feels the grin still splitting his face, as he searches for the remnants of the blue, orange, and white light in his mind—colors that had been missing from his Force-sense for months. Colors only present in his dreams as his mind’s eye sees her looking back at him with one of his two favorite expressions. The one without the sharp predator’s teeth bared.

But first, the imminent splattering into the the dusty canyon floor. He flattens himself, attempting to use the maneuver to slow like a sky-sailer. He continues to plummet, only with a bit more style than the windmilling of arms and legs, trying to gain purchase.

He closes his eyes, tries to focus on the missing light, once again, just as he had when he had aimed for the probe droid. He divorces his mind from the rushing wind. The bright lights flash into his consciousness. He is suddenly surrounded by warmth; warmth engulfing his entire being. Warm fur and an earthy smell flows into his mind.

_Wait, fur? Wet dog smell?_

He scrambles out of Zeb’s arms, falling onto his ass. There is a quartet of laughter in his ears.

The first thing that he sees, looking up in the blue sky is his niece, hovering above him, her right hand still stretched out, as if trying to grab his clothing.

“What the hell, dumbass?” Zeb exclaims.

He puts his best innocent expression on his face, one that had never worked with Ti, and asks, “What?”

“You were dead. We were sure. Zeb was trying to figure out a way to at least lessen the impact without killing both of you, when you suddenly floated down like a feather into his arms, that stupid-ass smile on your face,” Nola says. She reaches down and hauls him up, pulling him into her arms. Her eyebrows raise at his expression. A slow smile softens the anger at the leap.

“You felt her, didn’t you?” she says softly. “The Force worked?”

He nods, looking down. Sabine touches down gently, then engulfs them both in her arms. She kisses his cheek. “I’m glad, _ba’vodu_ ,” she says.

“Begging everyone’s pardon,” Kallus says dryly. “Not that I really want to break up the group hug and all,” Zeb snickers at this, “but we still have a problem. Captain Florlin is signalling that the ten remaining droids are headed for the communications tower that General Syndulla rigged to jam. She’s screaming in, but we are actually closer than she is to intercept.”

Jame releases Sabine. He looks at her. She grins. “You don’t even have to ask, Commodore,” she says, donning her bucket. She triggers the jetpack, and is soon out of sight.

His eyes fall on Nola; sees her left arm hanging useless at her side. He goes to examine the wound.

“Don’t,” she says. “Kallus already dressed it.” She grins gratefully at the ex-ISB agent. She turns and strides for the Phantom II. “Would you three care to walk to the comm tower?” they hear as she walks away.

Zeb watches her retreating back. “Does she always have to get the last word?” he asks.

Blackthorn grins. “Welcome to my life of the last two decades, give or take,” he says.

“Yes,” Kallus replies. “With your personality, I can see it. Zeb and I are charming and easy to get along with.”

Jame snaps his fingers. “Oh, so that’s what I’ve been doing wrong all this time. Glad I have you to point that out.”

The byplay is interrupted by the sound of the engines starting. Kallus and Zeb start to move faster. Jame remains at the same pace. They both look back at him, as if hurrying him along.

His grin returns. “Don’t worry. That’s about the extent of her ship-driving skills. We’ve got time.”

+=+=+=+=+=

 Wolffe feels his entire body compacted by the mass of Rex sitting on top of him. _Well, it is a two-seater,_ he thinks to himself.

“How come Drop, the lowest ranking one in the war, gets a seat to himself in this thing?” he asks acerbically.

“Probably because Drop is the one who is too big and can’t share a seat with either of you two codgers,” comes the dry answer from the front seat of the A-Wing.

“Who the hell are you calling a ‘codger’?” Rex and Wolff retort in stereo. “You’re older than either one of us,” Rex finishes.

“Yeah, well, like fine whisky, I aged well,” Drop replies.

They feel the fighter start to vibrate. “What’s that burning smell?” Rex asks, looking around.

“Probably Drop thinking,” Wolff replies without thought.

“This thing isn’t meant to carry three of us, especially one of Rex’s girth.” Drop replies.

“Asshole,” Rex whispers. “We’re closing the distance, brother,” he finishes, dropping the sarcastic tone.

As if on cue, they hear the fighter’s cannon open up on the droids. The bolts manage to strike one of the droids in the propulsion system, dropping it to the ground with terminal velocity.

“Well, at least there’s only nine to deal with,” Wolff says.

Four of the probes peel off from the others. The other five continue to the populated areas.

The probes’ blasters open up, sending streaks of green energy towards the overloaded fighter.

There is a scream of tortured metal and the A-Wing flips.

“What the hell?” Rex yells, as his face is compressed against the canopy. Wolff surreptitiously breathes a sigh of relief. Alarm whistles and beep sound in counterpoint to the three clones’s voices.

“Engine’s blown. They didn’t even have a chance to hit us.”

“Can you flip us back over?” Rex asks as he manages to sit back in the seat. Wolffe holds him tightly around the middle.

“Nope. Control surfaces are going,” Drop replies. “Even if I could flip over, you two couldn’t eject.”

Rex looks at Wolffe. “Go ahead and eject, Drop. You can right yourself before you hit the ground.”

Both of them can hear the smile in his voice. “Nope. Not leaving you boys. Lost too many brothers.”

“Drop, this is no time to be heroic, you stubborn-ass Null,” Wolff says. He and Rex look at one another, nod.

“Nope. Not being heroic. Just waiting for my Captain to finally get her cute little ass in gear and pull our asses out of the poodoo.”

“Why, Drop, I never knew you noticed,” a new voice says over the pickup. A clear voice with a more than a hint of laughter.

Wolffe grins as Drop replies. “Always, dear. Especially when that old piece of poodoo would roll in and save me and my commandos’ bacon.” Wolffe feels the pause. “In two wars,” Drop finishes softly. “I love smartassed naval officers that give my General or Commodore a great deal of shit, all while helping to keep everybody alive.”

There is a sharp jerk as the fighter begins to lift. They feel themselves right, as another tractor beam pulls on the starboard side of the fighter. They look up and see the open ventral bay of the fighter pod on the old ship.

When they nestle inside the pod, Wolffe hears Drop whisper. “You certainly live up to the _Bucket’s_ namesake, Captain Florlin. Jana Sloane would be proud of you. Just as I know Jame is.”

On the bridge of the Sloane, Lexa Merricope takes over the controls as she sees Meglann Florlin overcome by Drop’s words. Lexa realizes at that moment, that her ‘demotion,’ was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to her as a naval officer. The commando’s words remind her of this old ship’s life and the lives of those who had fought, lived, and died aboard her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of a young woman clad in a tank top and uniform trousers, her dark skin glowing in the dim emergency lighting, touching Meglann on the shoulder. She turns full on towards her Captain.

The apparition is gone. Meglann turns to her. “Come on, XO. Quit daydreaming. We’ve got some Imps to splash.”

Lexa shares a grin with her. “You got it, Captain.” The grin transforms with a bit of mischief. “That is if your head can still fit in the cockpit, from all that smoke blown up your afterburners.”

The shocked look on Meglann’s face only lasts for a second, as the laughter grows on the bridge.


	9. where you board the boat for Ship Island, someone will take your picture:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reckonings.

Morai floats over on the tiny bit of breeze on the dead world. She drops down to the figure sitting and rocking on the dusty ground in the upper ruins of the Temple. Ahsoka looks up, from where she rests her head on her knees as Morai lights on her shoulder, her tear-streaked face calm. Morai senses that her charge has, probably for the first time in her adult life, cried herself out.

She brushes her wing along Ahsoka’s cheek. _+Ahsoka,+_ she says gently. _+What is it?+_ Morai makes sure that she only speaks in the Daughter’s voice, allowing the others to rest.

“It’s nothing, Morai. I’m okay,” Ahsoka replies.

 _+Ahsoka, I have watched over you for a long time. I don’t know that I have ever seen this grief from you. Out with it.+_ Morai watches as Ahsoka pulls herself back up to her knees, then stands. Her lightsabers, resting in front of her, fly to their hooks.

“Morai, I have to get out of here. I can’t stay here,” she says.

Morai settles on her shoulder, nuzzling her cheek. _+You’ve had contact with the outside, haven’t you?_ +

Ahsoka looks away, then back to Morai. “Yes,” she says in a small voice.

 _+Was it your Covenant? Your hunt-brother?+_ Morai sees her smile at the use of two different titles—both ancient in their own way; on their own worlds. Titles of protection, one for a world; the other for the person sworn to.

“Yes, it was,” she says, a small smile playing over her face. The smile fades. “He was fighting. I guess he was able to touch the Force again.”

_+Then why are you so sad?+_

Ahsoka walks over and sits on her usual rock. “I lost him—or at least the sense of him in the middle of the battle. He was falling.”

 _+Nothing from him since?+_ Morai asks.

“No,” Ahsoka says. “I haven’t.”

Morai smiles in her mind as she thinks of her own glimpse into the mercurial presence of this one’s protector. A glimpse stolen just as the protector fell into the arms of the furry one. Even though she knows the answer, she asks the question, anyway. _+How was he, little one?+_

Ahsoka smiles. “Strong. Lost. Still fighting, but with faith failing. When I touched his mind, the pure joy nearly knocked me over.” She takes a deep breath. “He has people watching out for him. People who won’t let him give into the darkness, whether it is the physical, or darkness of the mind.” She looks up at the bird. “I’ve told you about the Zeltron idea of the soul, right?”

 _+Yes, little one. Thankfully you didn’t go into all the ways that they celebrate it,+_ she says dryly.

She hears an incongruous giggle from the warrior.

“Yes. Well,” Ahsoka says, a deep flush playing on the stripes of her lekku. “They believe that the soul is made up of all three parts—the heart, the mind, and the body. The heart is the most important aspect, then the mind, and finally the body.” She looks up at Morai. “All of them have to be present and nurtured, though, for the soul to be complete.”

Morai sees a beatific smile flow to her features. “I have people that I trust and love to look after him,” Ahsoka says, reaching up and stroking Morai’s wing. “His entire soul.”

Morai rests her head against Ahsoka’s cheek. Later, as she watches Ahsoka sleep, she makes a decision.

Morai begins to morph, her small figure expanding; taller and taller; until a tall woman, her serene features reflecting golden light, looms over Ahsoka. She remembers when she had first seen the young woman; an impetuous student to an impetuous teacher. She smiles at the growth over the years.

The Daughter reaches down and touches Ahsoka’s lek, then her cheek.

+=+=+=+=+=

Hera sits at Mart’s sensor console, her cheek against her fist. She struggles not to doze as she watches the screen. She had seen the signs of fatigue in the teenager as he stared at the short-ranger sensors and coordinated the data from the _Bucket’s_ long range sensor sweeps. There had been no other alerts in the two days since the attack. They had taken time to lick the few wounds that they had. She hadn’t seen Blackthorn, even to thank him for helping her world. Hera starts up from her fist, then smiles at the possessiveness. _Her world._

Hera looks up as a brief breeze blows through the room. She grits her teeth at the thought that one of her crew had left the door to the command center open. _Either that or the damned shoddy Imperial construction._ She grins. _We’ll go with the construction. Everybody is tired._

The breeze blows in again. She sighs and gets up, stopping as her lower back locks in place. She counts ten backward in Ryl, waiting for the spasm to calm. She curses the betrayal of her body, then stops herself. She shakes her head. Hera turns to close the door. Her eyes widen. The door is already closed. She spends the next five minutes verifying that every window and vent to the outside is closed.

She sits in the closest chair. As she does, she feels a touch on her shoulder. Light. The other shoulder is next. Her indrawn breath is ragged. She whirls around. Only at the corner of her eye does she see the source of the sensations. When she turns full on, the glimpse of the tall Jedi, his hair and eyes restored, is nowhere to be seen.

“You okay, General?”

Hera stops. This time she feels at least one solid hand on her shoulder. She turns and looks into the concerned eyes of Nola Vorserrie.

Hera paints a smile on her face. “I’m okay. Just see ghosts in the corners, these days.” She surprises herself with her candor. She lifts Nola’s hand off of her shoulder and gives it a squeeze. The older woman smiles softly, then grimaces as her left arm, the one hanging in the sling, brushes against the chair.

Hera shakes her head, then pulls a chair over. “Sit,” she says, the ‘General’ tone in her voice evident.

Nola obeys. Hera sways as the room flips.

“Sit. Before you fall down yourself, Hera,” Nola says, in a tone reminiscent of her own.

Hera sees the dark eyes drill through her. “You need to get some type of food in you.” The eyes force Hera to look away. “To replace everything that you have lost puking your guts out.”

Hera feels her jaw clinch, as she prepares to jump with both feet. Nola puts her free hand on her arm. “Easy, General. I don’t think anyone else knows.”

“How long have you known?” Hera asks quietly.

“Since I saw and heard you on the first day we were here. I thought that your toenails might come up,” she says with a cheeky grin.

“They might have,” Hera admits. “How did you know?”

Nola looks away. Hera can see the struggle in the woman’s eyes, on her face. “I had to piece it together after the fact, but I went through some of the same symptoms years ago.”

Hera cocks her head. “Why did you have to piece it together? You have a child?” She trails off as the pain flashes hotter on Nola’s face.

Nola forces the pain away, then looks directly at Hera. “Because I didn’t know I was pregnant, before I lost it.” She laughs, a hollow sound. “Very efficient,” she whispers.

Hera reaches up and takes Nola’s cheeks in her hands. Nola allows the touch, then shakes her head. Hera drops her hands. “How long ago?” she asks after a moment.

Nola takes a deep breath. “I kinda don’t keep track. The rugrat might’ve been close to sixteen.” She pulls Hera close. “I can tell you want this kept under wraps. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I can do that quite well.” Her face crumples for an instant, then is calm. “Sometimes to my loved ones’ detriment.”

Hera nods. “Thank you, Nola.”

“I will tell you that you might not want to wait too long. You have a family that would take you both to their hearts.” She smiles. “You might have two families that will.”

“I am afraid to ask, but what is Jame to you?” Hera asks.

Nola contemplates the screen for a moment. “Like all of us that you know of our generation—Jame, Dani, Lassa, Meglann—even Ahsoka at one time, we are more than lovers, friends, brothers or sisters of choice. Maybe less, maybe all of the above.”

Hera nods. Nola makes to get up. Hera stands and pulls her to her. Nola is just the right height to rest her chin on Hera’s head.

Hera banishes the memory of another who had been able to rest there to the depths of her heart.

+=+=+=+=+=

Jame Blackthorn walks into the command center in the early morning hours. Mart Mattin, the young pilot from Mykapo sits at his usual spot at the sensor suite. Blackthorn grins at the operator.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” he asks.

“Just did, Commodore,” the earnest young man says. “Managed to get General Syndulla to go and catch some.” He matches Blackthorn’s grin. “With the help of your Colonel. In fact, she did most of the work. I just came in and sat at the console. Most of the threats came from the Colonel.”

Jame rolls his eyes. “I guess she’ll be turning her ire on me, next,” he grumbles.

“You haven’t slept, Commodore?” Mart asks.

“A bit, Mart,” he says. “Trying to figure out what to do next. I don’t think that the Empire will leave us alone.”

Mart nods. “It’s probably why General Syndulla doesn’t get much sleep these days,” he says.

The concern in the teenaged pilot’s voice grips Jame’s chest with its raw intensity. “That’s probably one of the reasons,” he manages.

“Kanan?” Mart asks.

“Her loss, yes. Ezra—where the hell he is. Sabine, Zeb, Kallus, you. All of those reasons keep her awake at night.”

Mart looks at his screen, as if taking this in. “Do you sleep, Commodore?” he asks.

“Like a baby,” Jame says, deadpan.

Mart’s eyes widen, until he sees Jame’s lips twitching.

“What keeps you up at night, Commodore?”

Jame is silent for a moment. _How do I tell him that someone everyone else thinks is dead used to trigger my mind all the time?_ He shake his head. “Same things, probably. On a smaller scale. How am I going to keep my group in food and fuel? What dumbass idea is Command going to come up with next that might get us all killed?” He feels his face fall. “Am I willing to take the step I need to for Hera and Ezra’s dreams for Lothal?”

He sees Mart’s wide eyes at the last. Jame inwardly curses, thinking that he has revealed too much. He sees Mart nod, a smile coming over the open features. He closes his eyes.

“I think Hera might appreciate knowing that someone else in the Rebellion cares,” Mart says quietly.

“I think that they care, Mart,” Nola says from the door. “I’m sure at least one agonizes over what to do, now that y’all have gone and done it,” she finishes.

Jame grins at the inflection from his homeworld. “Thought you were tucking General Syndulla in, No-no,” he says.

“I did. Rocked her to sleep. Sang ‘Soft Tooka, Warm Tooka,’ to her several times. Gave her some warm milk.”

“How come you don’t do that for me?” he asks. “You usually use a more forceful tactic with me. Like a bloody hammer. Or threats of Meglann’s frying pan.”

“You have a harder head than she does.” A knowing light opens in her dark eyes. “Plus, I have other weapons in my arsenal that I can employ with you. Along with Captain Florlin and Commander Faygan—the big guns.” Her eyes grow mischievous for a second. “Although—,” she says. “The General might respond to those, as well.”

Jame sees the years between them and others build in the look that she gives him. “You did promise me a ‘conversation’ some time,” he says.

“Well, if you can stop jumping off of cliffs and getting me shot long enough, we might have that conference some time, your Commodoreship,” she say. She grins. “Maybe we’ll take a page from Lassa Rhayme’s Rules of Order,” she says. “If we can find a tub big enough.”

He rolls his eyes as he sees Mart blushing furiously, as well as seeing his hopes for military decorum flying out of the window.

Mart looks at Nola, with something like awe. _Maybe something other than awe_ , Jame thinks.

The pilot then sobers. “Colonel? Commodore? What can we do to make General Hera’s life easier? Other than tub meetings,” he adds hastily with another round of blushing .

Nola’s look softens. She walks over to Mart and places her hand on his shoulder. “Do what you are doing, Mart. Asking the question. Making sure that you help pain-in-the-ass staff officers get her to sleep, merely by taking over whatever she is doing. Remembering one thing,” she starts.

She smiles at his curious look. “Remember that we are not just a military organization. We are an idealistic one as well. This whole thing is based on three things. Faith, hope, and love. The greatest of these is love.”

Jame lets his breath out at her words. His eyes burn as he realizes how dusty the Imp command center is. She looks up at him, then sticks her tongue out at him.

Mart looks at the two older fighters. He sees the years of their fight in the looks that they give each other.

His console lights up. He looks at the screen, adjusting the gain. His heart sinks as his eyes fall on the wedge shape that appears as he magnifies the signal.

He turns to the two senior officers. “Imperial recognition signals on the IFF, Commodore,” he says in a shaky voice.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann leans back against the headboard of the bed, willing her breathing to return to normal. Her left hand clutches the top of the headboard, as she pulls the other hand from under the covers. She grins sheepishly as her heartrate slows as well. She closes her eyes, then gets up. She lifts the cold caf to her lips, makes a face. She sets the cup on the nightstand, sighing.

She looks over at the empty spot on the rest of the bed, as she pulls her clothes on. She wonders what Nola and Jame are doing at this moment. Whether or not Dani has returned; if she is still hurting from Lassa’s intransigence. She sighs as she thinks of her family—her family of choice. After a brief glimpse of the joy on Jame’s face after the battle—something that has not been present in months, she knows that she can feel her hope rising that another member of her family is alive—somewhere in the stars. Meglann closes her eyes, sending a brief entreaty for forgiveness, for losing her hope in the woman who had taught her so much, ever since she walked into a diner on Alderaan.

She sighs, looking over at the head, longingly. She calculates the time before she goes and relieves Lexa on their watch and watch; whether she has time for a shower. _Probably shouldn’t have spent that much time flying solo,_ she thinks.

Meglann smiles as her mind switches gears and thinks about how the XO had risen and surpassed her expectations.

 _Screw it. I’m the Captain_. She starts to pull her shirt off.

The strident, insistent gonging suddenly rings through her senses. Lexa’s voice sounds over the speakers and over the gong. “General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations.” Meglann hears the hum of the shields raising, as bosun’s pipes sound in the passageway.

In moves drilled into her for many years now, she grabs her boots and socks and opens the intercom. “Speak.” she says tersely, as she is jumping on one leg to pull them on.

“Imperial light carrier just jumped in. It came in on the hyperspace route we were worried about.”

“ _Quasar Fire_ class?” Meglann asks, her mind already calculating the possibilities.

“Yes, Captain. She hasn’t launched anything, yet. Doesn’t appear to have any escorts,” Lexa says.

“Okay. On my way. Move to intercept and prepare to open fire. We may be able to handle her if there aren’t any escorts.” She moves out towards the hatch, snagging her helmet and the bag containing the respirator and medpack that she insisted her crew wear in a combat situation.

The hatch closes on the empty room as she pounds to the bridge.


	10. the photograph—who you were— will be waiting when you return.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family found—for now

Jame Blackthorn turns to Nola. “You better go get Hera up,” he says.

She is about to turn when the door opens. “Already up, Jame. What’ve we got?” Hera asks.

“Imperial light carrier. The _Bucket_ is moving to intercept,” he replies.

She looks at him, her expression troubled. “Can a _Consular_ handle a carrier?” she asks.

“Maybe, if there are no heavy escorts. She’ll have trouble with the fighters. Those things don’t usually travel without lights or full Destroyers as escorts.”

“I’ve got Kallus and the crew spooling up the _Ghost_. I think that I can’t sit down here and wait.”

He smiles. “Nope. Not for this one. Our A-Wing trainer is fixed. I’ll take her up.” He turns to Nola. “No-no. You and Mart. You’ll be the Tacco from down here.”

“But—,” she starts. She falls silent at his look.

He touches her cheek. “I know. You want to be in the middle of everything. But you told me yourself. You can’t fly more than from Point A to Point B, and even then you take a side trip to Point C. I need you here,” he finishes.

“I can shoot,” she says, in a last-ditch effort.

He grins. He reaches over and kisses her, ignoring Mart’s wide eyes and Hera’s eyeroll. “I know you can, love,” he says.

“What’s a Tacco?” she asks against his lips.

He looks away. “Just tell us where they are and where we need to be to blow shit up, smartass,” he says.

She seizes his beard. “Come back to us, your Eminence,” she says, kissing him again.

He turns to leave, throws one last shot over his shoulder. “Tell Meglann to send out a recall to the group. It’ll take ‘em too long to get here, but maybe they can pick up the pieces, at least.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann listens at Nola’s instructions with one ear and the comms between the two approaching ships.

“Comm officer, make it so,” Lexa says, anticipating her move.

“Approach from the starboard flank,” Meglann says. “Target the bridge.”

“Captain, they have made no attempt to fire or launch,” the gunnery officer says.

“Jame, you getting this?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice distorted by the starfighter comms. “We’re buster. That is if Hera can keep up,”

“You just worry about your own little red landspeeder,” comes the reply.

“We’ve separated,” Sabine says from the _Phantom_. “It’ll give us another angle of fire.”

“All right, General Slowpoke. You’re in charge. How do you want us?”

“We’re coming into range, General,” Meglann says over the pickup. “Still haven’t fired.”

“That’s odd,” Kallus says.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Zeb says.

“I’ve got a damned good one,” comes another voice.

Jame allows a broad smile over his tense features at the warm, light voice.

“Hyperspace displacement, sector 5,” Sabine says.

Jame looks up in time to see four ships shift to normal space. He grins as he sees the battered Nu-class attached to the lead _Nebulon-B_ , as well as the A-Wings floating like chicks to a nuna.

“You made good time,” he says. “We barely even put the call out.”

Dani Faygan’s crimson face appears on his HUD. “Used my super-powerful Zeltron senses to know just when to jump in and save your ass, Commodore,” she says.

Her eyes are their usual laughing violet, but he can see the shadows of pain under her eyes.

He nods. “Glad something made you come after me. Can’t be my personality,” he says.

Her smile turns into a reputable copy of her father’s Dragon smile. “I just came for Hera and Meglann—maybe Sabine and No-no,” she says. She looks away.

His eyes narrow. “Tell me when we get out of this.”

She nods. He turns the fighter away, to dock with the place he had called his home for many years.

+=+=+=+=+

Meglann looks up as Jame walks onto the bridge. “Commodore on the bridge,” Lexa says. Jame holds his hand out before anyone can stand. His eyes turn hard as he sees two figures he had never expected to see. Hondo Ohnaka, the Weequay pirate and his little familiar, Melch, stand quietly at the rear of the bridge. Jame narrows his eyes, as he remembers a story told to him on the shore of an ancient lake. A story of a lightsaber crystal quest, pirates, and acrobatic younglings—one of whom had given him the honor of being his Padawan. Hondo avoids his eyes, looking all the world like someone who had been told who he was. What he might have meant to the chaperone of those younglings, a young Togruta padawan.

Melch on the other hand snorts and grins, walking up to him and holding his hand out. In spite of his disdain for anyone employed by pirates, he grips the small being’s hand.

He hears the XO curse. “Captain, more hyperspace signals.”

Jame moves to the comm panel. “Dragon Leader, this is Actual,” he says. “Might get busy, your Grace. That damned carrier has stopped and isn’t doing anything. Weapons are free on the big one. We’ll engage the four that are about to revert, along with the rest of our frigates.”

He smiles as he hears his niece’s voice. “Whatever, Uncle. Just point us where to shoot.”

“Always, Hopeless,” he replies.

She sees Meglann jump up from her chair, her eyes locking on the display. “The carrier’s magnashields are opening. She’s getting ready to launch fighters. We can’t tell what.”

Jame closes his eyes and speaks two words; words that his Master had sometimes despaired of him using, except when she used them herself.

_Well, shit._

He isn’t quite able to stop himself as he sees Meglann grin. His eyes move to the port.

Long lances burst from the bays, rather than double-winged spheres. Long lances with four engines, four cannon, and four wings. He exhales as a signal tone sounds.

Meglann stares at him as the voice sounds over the speaker. “Hey Dragons. Get the old man up there. Tell him his daughter wants to bust his horns.”

Talle Tredecima, daughter of a missing Jedi, and a large, loving clonetrooper-turned Rebel commando leader, grows serious. “I have something to tell him. Someone he needs to meet.”

“So what is with the carrier?” Meglann asks.

“We managed to take it, but we’re having some issues with things. Including comms. I’m supposed to relay.”

“Okay, Droplet. Do your thing,” Meglann says.

“Katana Actual, this is Runt Leader. Stand by for relay.”

Meglann sighs next to him, as Jame closes his eyes at the name of the X-wing squadron.

He manages to keep the tears from forming at the nickname. A nickname for his Hunt-sister, derived from one of contempt for him. His eyes snap open as he realizes who the other party in the conversation is.

His eyes flash as the holo activates.

“Hello, cousin. Thanks for not blowing us up.”

Garm Bel Iblis, former Senator of the Five Brothers of Corellia, grins at him from the holo.

Jame closes his eyes and shakes his head. At the same time, a ghost of a idea plays in his mind.

+=+=+=+=+

Dani Faygan walks down the small Corellian freighter’s ramp. She stops and looks over the bustling activity on the hangar deck. The twelve X-wings rest on the deck; deck crew move over and around them, attaching fueling lines and opening them up for any of the myriad adjustments needed for high-performance spacecraft. She smiles at the tri-colored stripes along the side.

She feels a pair of strong arms circle her middle and squeeze tightly from behind. She smiles down at the orange-clad limbs; turns into the embrace.

Dani looks into the gray eyes of her adopted daughter. Jamelyn, Elector-Presumptive of Corellia, gives her the usual cheeky smile and reaches down and kisses her.

“Hello, _abeeyeh_ ,” she says. “I’ve missed you.” The two women hug each other tightly, as Dani smiles at the word in her birth-language. _Mother_.

Dani pulls back and watches Jamelyn stare in awe at the hangar bay. She smiles with pride as she thinks of her missing. A father. A lover. She feels the wetness form as she thinks of the possibility of adding her heart-bond to that list. She shakes her head, thinking only of the young woman in her arms, for now.

“Think this might work, Mother,” Jamelyn says. “We can adapt the upper TIE racks for the A-Wings. We can fit all twelve.” She grins. Her eyes light up as she hears familiar footsteps behind her. “That is if the twit in charge of those slow-ass, overrated things will let me,” she finishes.

She turns around. Talle Tredecima falls into both women’s arms. “We might have some room for the geriatrics among us,” she says.

“How’s it going, Droplet?” Dani asks.

“Not bad, Commander. Kinda like my new digs.”

“Pretty ship,” Dani says. The three women hold each other tighter, ignoring the looks of the passing crew and pilots.

“Wow, somebody looks fat and happy,” comes a dry voice behind them. “As usual, I appear to have been doing all the work,” Sabine Wren finishes.

There is another round of tight embraces, before Talle breaks away. “Commander, Jamelyn, ‘bine. There is someone I’d like you to meet on the bridge. I think my Dad might be meeting her now.”

The trio of women look mystified as they follow her.

Behind them, a tall figure watches, his dark eyes tracking them. The Commander smiles and nods.

+=+=+=+=+=

Jame Blackthorn and Nola watch as Drop hugs the young woman to his chest. Tears flow unabashedly from his dark eyes, as the two hold each other. The young engineer breaks away. Both officers inhale once again as they look at her.

She is very young, maybe not even eighteen. Her dark eyes stare up at Drop with wonderment.  
Her features, other than the wonder, are calm, but with a hint of devilment and mischief. She wears the first example of a symbol of enlightenment from her mother’s world on her forehead.

Jame hears a gasp behind her, as a feeling of warmth and joy from the bearer’s emotional overflow flows to all of them. Dani stares transfixed at the young woman. The years fall away. Nearly two decades of wondering if a woman that they had all known and loved was alive or dead. This spitting image; a combination of Elle Jaquindo, Jedi Knight and the large man holding her, was proof that she had been alive. An impossible gift, for a clone who most thought couldn’t father children.

Drop looks at his other family. “Everyone, this is Faith. My youngest daughter.”

Jame walks over and puts his hand on Drop’s shoulder, lifting his palm to his _Vode’s_ cheek, then looks at the young woman. “Hello, Faith. I am Jame. Your mother knew me as Taliesin.” He smiles. “There is no way, you could be anyone else’s daughter.”

Faith smiles, an expression that punches everyone in the chest with its familiarity. “Hello, sir,” she says. “She speaks of you often.” The devilish look comes to the forefront. “She said that you were mildly entertaining back then.”

“Okay,” Jame says, a hint of laughter on his face. “That seals it. You are your father’s daughter.”

He turns to Garm Bel Iblis, watching and talking quietly to Hera. “Where is her mother, Garm?” he asks without preamble or greeting.

“She is alive. She checks in twice-weekly,” Garm says, his eyes narrowed at his younger cousin.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Jame says evenly. The tension rises on the bridge. Dani and Nola both place their hands on his arms.

“She’s doing her job. She is on Coruscant, in the undercity. Deep cover.”

Drop starts towards him. “You bastard. The one place in the universe a Jedi shouldn’t be and you send her—,”

Faith pushes her father on the chest. “It’s not like that,” she says, searching for a word for him. “She lost the Force—I think on that night. They can’t find her like that.”

Drop pauses in his desire to rip Garm’s limbs from his body. His face falls, as he turns away.

“Ahsoka told us, from the time she finally recovered her memory of meeting Elle,” he says. “I just had hopes she would regain it.” He looks back at Garm. “What is she doing there?”

Garm nods. “She’s building. Building whatever she can.” His own eyes track downward. “She’s also finding out whatever she can on the Disappeared.”

Jame and Dani look at one another. Hope rises in that instant. Jame tracks back to Garm. “She’s Phygus’s source for info,” he says, the little slicer’s face in his mind.

“Yeah,” he says.

Jame stares directly at him. “One of these days, Garm, we’re going to have another conversation about you running your own little private rebellion. Just because you can’t play nice with Mothma.”

Garm smirks, then sobers. He walks over to Jame. His arm takes in the bridge. “That appears to be over with. I have submitted myself to your command, Jame,” he says, touching the Commander’s insignia on his chest. He looks at Hera. “This ship is yours, General Syndulla.”

Hera smiles. “It will help. I need to talk to Command. They may not let me keep it.”

Jame looks at Garm with new eyes. “So what is her name?” he asks quietly.

“Oh, she has some pompous Imperial name. _Rampant Stallion_ or some such. I think I have a better name for her.” He walks over to Dani, taking her in his arms. His face shows his own losses. A wife and children. “I think I will call her the _Draq’alyn._ ”

The well bursts as Dani sobs. She runs from the room, Jamelyn on her heels. Jame nods. “The _Dragon’s Daughter_. It fits,” he says.

“I think that Dani is the one most fit to command her. It’s only through the grace of Faith and one other that I managed to get her this far.”

Jame looks at him curiously. “One other?”

“Yeah, stud. Me.”

Jame closes his eyes as he turns. He hears Kallus’s exclamation, then curse.

He opens his eyes. Dav Kolan stands there, in a battered flight jacket with a Commander’s insignia.

“Great, another ex-ISB clown,” Jame says, the snark hiding his emotion at finding another alive and well.

“Somebody has to class up the joint,” Kolan says. “Although, in this instance, it’s the ex-pilot clown that you’re getting.”

Jame nods. “How’s Dek?”

“He’s good. Trying to figure out how to command a medical frigate.”

“So I guess you’re in the fight again, not just in the shadows,” Nola says.

“Yeah. Guess so. Maybe being a father changes your perspective about the galaxy.”

Jame keeps his expression neutral at that. He notices that Dav no longer has the affected Coruscanti accent that he had always known.

He turns to Hera. “General Syndulla, Commander Dav Kolan. Even though he will try to deny it, he is a Lothal native.” He looks at the stars. “We’ve saved each other’s lives before,” he finishes.

Hera nods and turns to Dav. “I think you’ll be welcome, Commander,” she says. She looks at Kallus. “I’ve learned that someone’s past doesn’t always determine their future.”

“I guess you’ll be the CAG of this barge?” Jame asks. He looks at Talle and the hatch where Jamelyn had followed her mother. “You’ve got some good troops here, in your air group.”

Jame takes a deep breath, then turns to Hera. “I think that this makes this easier to do.” He pulls the rank plaque from his chest and hands it to her. Without another word, he leaves the bridge.

Hera and his family stare at one another, their eyes wide.


	11. Only the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Convor infestation on the Alliance Corvette _Sloane_. Plus, sometimes that _is_ the way that the Force works.

For a moment, no one moves. Dani and Nola turn and start to leave the bridge. Hera holds up her hand. “No, loves,” she says. “Let me. I am the one he resigned to. It’s my responsibility.”

Both officers looks as if to argue. Hera smiles. “Give me some time. He may need some, too.”

She turns and follows Blackthorn. Dani and Nola look at one another.

“Well, do you think we should actually obey?” Nola asks Dani.

“Why start now? Dani replies with slight smile.

Sabine Wren rolls her eyes. She looks at Talle and Jamelyn. Without a word both of them nod. She follows Hera.

+=+=+=+=+=

Jame takes a deep breath as the door to the captain’s cabin closes behind him. He walks over to the dresser and strikes the wooden ornamental cylinder in a particular spot. The panel springs open. He reaches in and pulls a bottle of amber liquid, still at the same level as when he and Dani had vacated the cabin. He pulls the cork and takes a sip. _Guess I should’ve let the current Captain in on this little secret._

The door opens behind him. He doesn’t turn, just closes his eyes. “Ask somebody else, Meglann. I don’t work here any more.”

“I don’t work for you, either,” Hera Syndulla says dryly.

He slowly turns. She stands in front of the hatch, her hands on her hips. Idly, he wonders how many times Kanan Jarrus, a man he had known briefly as the inquisitive boy Caleb Dume, had faced this same posture.

“Care to explain why you are deserting, Blackthorn?” she asks.

“Not deserting. Resigning. There is a legal difference,” he replies.

“Not to me, Jame,” she says, her voice quivering with anger.

He looks away. “I’m sorry you feel that way, General.” He turns away.

In two quick steps, she closes the distance. She grabs his shoulder and spins him around. He looks into the emerald fire that is her gaze. “You think you are the only one who has lost anyone?” Each word hits him harder than any punch. “I lost my Jedi, too. Do you see me just fucking giving up? Just quitting?” She punches him in the chest, rocking him back on his heels.

“Those kids in your group. Hell, not just the kids. All of them. They would follow you to hell and back. They’re probably even now as we speak plotting some way to follow you to wherever the hell you are going. The Alliance’ll lose another cell; another group without even a shot fired, because of their commander’s obsession and ego.” She curses as she realizes that tears are spilling down her cheeks.

She turns away. He picks up his bottle and takes another shot, along with a deep breath. He pulls her into his arms from behind, resting his forehead between her lekku. He feels her relax.

Hera turns in his arms. He holds up the bottle. She looks as if she is going to take it, then glances down at her middle. She gives her head a quick shake.

He looks down at her, his eyebrow raised. “First off, I’m not quitting for Ahsoka. She would never want me to quit. Secondly, I am quitting because of Kanan. Because of Ezra. I’m not going far.” He looks up, sees Sabine enter the room. “As a matter of fact, I am going to spend some time with the Wren side of my family.”

Both Sabine and Hera’s eyes lock on his. “I resigned because I knew that Command probably wouldn’t let me stay here with my little gang of miscreants and help you keep Lothal.”

She clinches her teeth. “So you just decided to quit—?” she starts.

“No. I decided to enlist.”

Hera and Sabine are quiet. He dips his head to her, then to Sabine. “I submit myself to your wishes, _Cabur_ ,” he says.

Hera scrunches up her brow. “What does that word mean?” she asks.

Sabine speaks up when she can. “It means ‘Protector’, in Mando’a,” she says.

He grins at her. “I know that you gave Ezra a sort of oath to protect his world. I’ll help you hold her, as much as my power and skills allow.” He moves his green gaze to Hera. “For Kanan,” he says quietly. “For Ezra.” He closes his eyes. “For Ahsoka.”

“Why are you doing this, Jame?” Hera asks. “Not that I don’t appreciate it; I do. But I would think that you would do more good for the Alliance where you are at.”

He looks at Sabine as he contemplates his answer. “Because the Alliance is going to need you, Hera. You will do more good for them than I ever will. The group will go on. Dani, Dav, Meglann Jamelyn, Talle, Drop—they are the heart of the Dragons. Probably do more without me pissing off Draven and others. Nola will help you rebuild; and I will help Sabine hold Lothal.”

Sabine walks over. Hera disengages as Sabine wraps her arms around him. “I accept your oath, Uncle. But I’m not sure I can be your _alor.”_

Jame kisses her on the forehead and smiles. “It won’t be the first time a Wren has bossed me around.” He forces the shadow on his face away.

Hera touches him on the arm. “Think about this some more. I need to make some calls, Jame. Don’t unpack yet.”

She turns to leave. As she gets to the door, she hears a gasp behind her.

Sabine stares at Jame as he lies on the deck, his eyes staring at the ceiling.

+=+=+=+=+=

On the bridge of the carrier, a quick, somewhat contentious conference is being carried out. Meglann watches as the discussion moves from following Hera’s orders, to outright mutiny, back to following orders, and finally mutiny again.

“Well, are we going to move the group here to Lothal?” Drop asks.

“I don’t know,” Dani replies with exasperation. “We have to ask ourselves, what would Jame do?”

“Well, it looks like he would resign, just when things got hot,” Dav says.

All of them stare at him. No one actually makes a move towards a weapon, but it is a close-run thing. Especially with the numbers of weapons that Dani carries. He doesn’t seem too concerned.

Nola finally moves to the center. “Maybe we should think that he has given us his answer. Jame usually says what he means. He has no problem telling us what we think. I think he would’ve told us if he intended to quit and if he intended for us to follow,” she says.

“I agree,” Dani says. “Let’s keep the faith a little bit.”

“Good idea,” Garm Bel Iblis says. “We can always try and figure out how to make this damned ship run, if we intend to desert.”

Several more looks of death are flung in his direction. Dav smirks as some of the pressure from those looks are diverted from him.

Dani turns to Nola and Meglann. “Let’s see if we can help the witless run our new ship—,” she starts. As one, all three of them stare at one another. Drop looks at them with concern.

All three turn and rush from the bridge.

+=+=+=+=+=

Jame shakes his head, as he pulls the bottle from his lips. His eyes narrow in curiosity. _I could’ve sworn Hera and Sabine were in here,_ he thinks. A flash of light scrapes at the edge of his vision.

As he turns to the source, his eyes fall on something he didn’t normally see on a naval vessel.

A small, fat bird, gold with green highlights, stares at him from the dresser. _Great. On top of everything else, we have a varmint infestation._

A memory stirs, of that same mountain lake, floating with a wet rebel agent in his arms, her lekku twitching in satisfaction against his chest. A green and gold bird soaring above her. His breathing quickens.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Bait,” comes a voice behind him. He closes his eyes, wondering if the pain will strike him again, if he turns around. The pain of her absence, these two and a half years or so.

“Open your eyes, my love. Turn around.”

Slowly, he obeys, dreading what he will see.

His hunt-sister kneels on the deck, her lightsabers placed precisely in front of her, her blue eyes looking at him with that unfathomable look that she would sometimes give him at the strangest of times. He closes his eyes as he remembers some of those times. Times when they would both be trying to catch their breath.

Jame sees her roll her eyes. “Yes. I’m thinking about those times, as well, Bait,” she says.

“Are you real?” he whispers.

Her features morph into the Smirk of her youth. Something he had seen rarely in the years before she—.

“I think I am. I’m not a dream, or a figment of your imagination,” she says. The Smirk widens. “Or your insanity.” She beckons to him.

He walks over and kneels in front of her, placing his hands on his knees.

“I tried to believe,” he says, the words rushing out. He stops. “I’m sorry,” he finishes.

“For what, Jame?” she asks.

“For losing faith,” he says.

She smiles softly. “Lost it, myself,” she replies. “It feels like I’ve just actually awakened. I remember our conversations—the ones in our minds. But it feels like somebody hit reset. I remember something that happened during the fight.”

He nods. “What?”

“I’ve had contact with someone else. With Ezra. I think that he saved me.” She looks down, then shakes her head. “I miss you. You, Dani, Meglann, Nola, Lassa. I desperately want to come home,” she finishes.

He can see the tears form through his own blurry vision. “Then come home,” he says.

She laughs, a familiar sound that warms him. “Wish it was that simple, _Baa’je.”_

She looks over at the convor. “I think that I have a journey ahead of me, Jame,” she says. “I don’t know how long it will take. Some of it may be from within. But I’ve made a promise to find Ezra. I swore to myself as well, that I would find you.” She wipes the tears away. “It may take a long time, but I will see you. Know that. You are my beacon.”

“Some beacon. Hell, I can’t do anything these days,” he says, his voice rising.

“Don’t you worry about that. You have enough,” says a powerful voice. He turns and looks at the convor. It hoots gently.

“Morai will help you, Jame,” Ahsoka says, gesturing at the bird. “She’s my friend.”

He nods. He turns and faces her again. He reaches out, then pulls his hand back. He closes his eyes and looks away. “I wish that I could touch you,” he says.

She smiles, her predator’s teeth showing. “Why don’t you try it?”

She rises effortlessly. He follows, but with less grace. He reaches his hand out again.

Jame Blackthorn nearly falls over at the touch of her familiar, cool skin. Her hand tightens on his, as she pulls him close.

“How?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I think that Morai may have to do something with it.”

He pulls her into his arms, his eyes close to hers. He moves his face closer, as if daring to touch her lips.

Her eyes remain open, blue and searching to his very depths—as they always do when they kiss. They both break away, as their hands move to their cheeks, measuring their different temperatures.

He grins, then looks away. “So, uh, how long do you think that your bird friend can hold this, uh, whatever the hell it is?”

She laughs at an aggrieved hooting from the dresser. He joins her laughter, then looks at the bird.

Morai holds her wing decorously over her eyes. “Not that long, sport,” she says. “Although, you _are_ old. It might not take that long.”

He rolls his eyes. “Great. Just what I needed. For you to bust my balls in two dimensions.”

“Well, she was around during some particularly exciting sights and sounds,” she replies.

His blush lights up the dim room, as he remembers.

Ahsoka sobers. “Love, when I was there, I heard J’ohlana’s voice. Or at least what I think was hers. She and Morai, and one other were the ones who kept me focused when I couldn’t see or hear you.”

He nods, unable to speak.

He hears the soft hoot again, more insistent this time. Ahsoka’s form seems to shift slightly. “I think I have to go, Jame Blackthorn. My hunt-brother.” She pulls him to her again, whispering in his ear. “I’ll see you when I see you. Maybe in that cave on Shili. The one that I can always sense you in when we are there.”

He nods, finally. Their lips meld, allowing each to breathe for the other.

“I love you, Ahsoka,” he says.

He hears the words in several languages as the light swallows him.

He blinks. Hera and Sabine kneel next to him. Nola, Dani, and Meglann stand over him, their faces filled with concern, but with no fear. He senses others in the passageway outside. One by one, the three of them smile at him.

“Kinda scared us there,” Sabine says. Hera nods.

“General, Sabine, can you give us a moment? I’m alright,” Jame says.

Hera’s eyes narrow, then crinkle in a smile. “Okay, Commodore. I’ll be waiting for your final answer.” She reaches down and kisses him on the forehead.

Sabine follows suit; then squeezes his arm.

As both leave, the other three reach down, then pull him up. They bring him into three pairs of arms, hugging each other tightly.

“I—,” he starts.

“We all saw her,” Nola says.

“We know, Jame,” Meglann says.

Dani reaches over and kisses him, her eyes tearing. She takes in all of them, her eyes morphing to black with strong emotion. Emotion that all of them can feel. “Whatever we need,” she says. “Whatever we need, _Na’ tain’gere’e ahe trah’gere.”_

_My sisters and brother of the heart._

Jame smiles. “We’ll bring all of our missing home,” he says.


	12. Epilogue: Restored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins.

Lassa Rhayme’s eyes start open. She shakes her head at the fading images in her mind. She smiles softly as she tries to process what she had seen.

Two people that she has known for two decades, possibly finding each other again. She watches as the veil lifts between their worlds, at least for a moment. She watches the other three women seeing a flash of the same thing. She breathes out as she realizes that something that might have died in her after Ahsoka’s journey to Malachor is rekindled.

 _Hope_. A lost hope that had driven her from her family; that had seemingly driven them all apart. A glimmer of hope that she could find others of their family lost as well. Particularly an old Corellian; the father of her heart’s bond, as well—.”

“Am I boring you, Captain?” a hard, but quiet voice breaks into her mind.

She brings her attention back to the man sitting across from her in the dingy watering hole. Her eyes fall downward as an errant thought pops into her mind. _Mostly a man_. She watches as Saw Gerrera lifts the small mask from its place on his armor and inhales quickly from it. The Tognath pilot beside him lifts a hand to the holstered blaster. Edrio— _no, might be Benthic, I can’t tell them apart_ —moves the hand away as she brings her blaster up and lays it on the table.

“Don’t know which one you are; don’t really care,” she says. “I just know that I have probably shot both of you at one time or another. Care to try for three out of three?”

“I seem to recall that Edrio has shot you, as well, Lassa,” Saw wheezes.

“Lots of people have, Saw. It’s part of my charm.”

“Does that include your lover? Your wife?” he asks.

She touches the blaster again. “Leave my lovers out of it, Saw,” she says, iron in her voice.

After a moment of a staring contest, green into bronze, he nods. “Now about those supplies, Captain,” he says.

“Long as you pay what I asked, Saw, I’ll transfer them.”

She forces a smiling crimson face to the back of her mind.

+=+=+=+=+=

Daaineran Faygan walks into the common area of the _Ghost_. She paints a warm smile on her face as Hera looks up from her datapad. Hera mirrors her expression as she stands from the _dejarik_ table.

The two women embrace for several moments. When they break apart, Dani kisses Hera on the cheek, then looks at her. Hera endures the scrutiny for a moment; looks away. When her eyes track back, Dani sees a mischievous grin play over her features. She allows one charcoal eyebrow to rise.

Hera giggles. “I thought that I might rate your trademark greeting for your friends,” she says.

Dani matches her laugh. “I’ve gotten older and smarter. I don’t generally grab anyone’s ass who outranks me a couple of steps.” She looks down. “Plus I don’t know—.” She stops.

Hera pulls the shorter officer tight to her chest. “I’m okay, love,” she says, “I guess a certain Corellian mother hen sent you to check up on me.”

Dani smiles against Hera’s shoulder. “Maybe.” She pulls away. “I am a trained psychologist, even though I’ve never practiced.”

“Something tells me with the crew you hang out with, you could’ve made a million if you had billed your hours.”

Dani laughs, a musical sound, rare even to her own ears, these days. “Yeah, they’re a complicated bunch. But they’ve been there for me, as much as I have tried to be there for them.

Hera walks over to the old caf-maker and pours a cup. She walks back as Dani sits at the table; hands the cup to the older officer. Dani pours some artificial creamer in the cup and sits back as Hera slides in next to her, pulling in close. Dani reaches up and pulls Hera’s head to her shoulder. After a moment, she opens the empathic resonance a tiny bit.

Hera’s green eyes track to her, the tattooed eyebrows falling as the eyes narrow. “Relax, General. I’ve just got it set to ‘stun’. Close your eyes and relax for a second.”

Hera seems to still the argument on her lips. Dani feels the General’s muscles relax against her. “Hera, tell me of Kanan,” she says.

Hera lifts her head up, staring at Dani. “Get out of my head, Commander,” she says firmly.

Dani merely smiles. “Don’t usually work that part, General,” she says, her voice equally as firm. “Even though it’s part of the soul, I usually aim lower.” She places her hand against Hera’s chest over where she hopes the Twi’lek heart is, painting a smirk on her face. “And not always as low as you think.”

Hera snorts, then lays her head back against Dani’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk, yet, Dani,” she says. “Why did Jame send you?”

“Something you said to him, when you were angry at him for resigning.”

Hera closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said anything about losing my Jedi. It’s not a competition. Ahsoka sacrificed herself, or,” she says with a pained look at Dani, “was willing to sacrifice herself for Kanan and Ezra.” She moves her head from Dani’s shoulder, looking away. “Kanan felt so damned guilty about her. I don’t know the root, but what I could glean was, he felt that he should’ve trusted his instincts on Malachor.”

Dani reaches up and pulls Hera back down to her shoulder. She doesn’t speak of the sensation of watching Ahsoka and Jame interact in real time, in a brief download into her mind. A flash shared by Nola and Meglann—even, to a certain extent by Drop, who had remained a bit skeptical of the whole experience.

“Ezra told me that he had seen Ahsoka during his little trip into the Force hoodoo. He didn’t tell me much, but he felt like—.” She stops, burrows in tighter to Dani’s shoulder. “Why did Jame think that you could help?” she asks.

Dani feels the smile against her shoulder. “Other than the obvious, of course.” She jumps as Hera moves her hand lightly over her thigh.

Dani grows sober. “It’s because I have experience with losing a Jedi.”

Hera jerks up. “What? When?”

“At the end of the Clone War,” she replies. She sees the servos turning, as Hera’s face falls.

“How? You look barely older than Talle and Jamelyn.”

Dani laughs. “Thank you for that. But I am actually about two and a half months older than Jame.”

Hera smiles, then allows it to fade. “Please don’t hoodoo me with whatever this is that I am feeling.”

Dani touches her cheek. “You don’t understand. I don’t create emotions. I reflect them. Whether they’re yours or mine.”

Hera sits back as she continues. “It’s why I asked you about Kanan. Not his death, but the positive things. It’s a part of Zeltron mourning rituals.” She gives a hooded look that causes Hera to inhale sharply. “Part of them. I don’t think you’re ready for the other part.”

Hera laughs. “Maybe not.” She takes Dani’s hand in hers. “I will, if you will. Tell me about your loves, Dani. Even the one that’s causing you such pain, now.”

Dani allows her heart to clinch, but suppresses the emotions. “Maybe, darling. But it’s about you.” She shakes her head. “Helping you, helping you relive the joy, will help me, as well,” she finishes.

Hera nods after a moment. “Okay,” she says. Her eyes narrow. “Is there another reason Jame sent you?”

“It might have something to do with the fact that I am a mother; even though I didn’t give birth to her,” she says.

Dani grins at Hera’s angry expression. She holds her hand up. “Relax, dear. Your emotions are all over the place. My cousin was the same way with her first child.”

Dani moves her hand to Hera’s middle. She lifts the tank that Hera is wearing and places her hand on the belly, rubbing gently. Dani smiles, but says nothing.

“I don’t know what it is with your crew. Nola has figured it out. I’m surprised Jame hasn’t.”

“He probably has, dear,” Dani says. “Force-users usually know something is up; some ‘imbalance’, as I’ve heard it described.”

Hera takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. Dani continues to rub her abdomen.

Hera opens her eyes. “It all started on a mining moon called Gorse,” she starts.

Unbeknownst to them, Chopper watches from a corner of the room. + _The red meatbag will take care of my Captain. Maybe I can stand down,+_ he thinks.

He runs a diagnostic on his shock prod. _+Who can I torment? The bomb-artist? Perhaps I can find the gray one, the one that R7-A7 calls the ‘scream-maker.+_

If a droid could be said to be whistling happily to himself, this is what it would look like.

+=+=+=+=+=

Blackthorn walks into the flag quarters of the light carrier. He sees Hera and Garm Bel Iblis silhouetted against the large floor to ceiling port, seated at a burlwood table. He raises his eyebrows as he realizes that the table is of the rarer, more regulated Alderaanian strain. He looks at Garm, who grins. “I think this was a Tagge’s flagship for a brief time.”

He turns to Hera. “I guess that you’re waiting on my final answer, General,” he says.

“Not really, Jame. I have a counter-proposal.” She activates a holocomm in the center of the table. “But I think someone else should present it. So you’ll know that it has weight behind it.”

A shock of red hair and ice-blue eyes appears above the table. Jame smirks as he sees Garm squirm in his chair. Mon Mothma ignores Bel Iblis; focuses on Blackthorn instead.

“Commodore Blackthorne,” she says. “It’s good to see you.”

He dips his head, as he thinks of what this woman means to his uncle, Draq’ Bel Iblis. Garm’s father. “Ma’am,” he says, as he is not quite sure what her title is in the Alliance.

“Hera tells me you are thinking of leaving; leaving to defend Lothal.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, looking away.

“In spite of what our Chief of Intelligence says, I think that would be a tremendous loss.”

Jame wisely decides not to respond, especially with the ‘Chief of Intelligence’ remark. _Only one of those, I recognize, Mon. She is on a business trip through the Force, right now._

Mon smiles at his expression. “Or, I should say, our Chief of _Military_ Intelligence,” she adds.

_Maybe you have lost your sabacc face, bud, along with everything else._

“You are correct in your assessment of General Syndulla’s worth to the Alliance and to a free galaxy. We will need her skills elsewhere when this fight opens up.” She looks at Hera directly. “Perhaps to free many more Lothals.”

Hera looks away.

“I can’t provide much more material support, I’m afraid. We don’t have a true capital ship fleet yet. Admiral Raddus and Vice Admiral Ackbar are working hard for at least a few of the Mon Cal city ships to join us openly, but it is slow going.”

Jame nods. “I know, Senator. But I think Dragon group will do fine without me,” he says.

Her smile fades, then come back harder. “Maybe. But the Dragon Carrier Task Force might not.”

Jame stares at her silently for several minutes. “What are you proposing, Senator?” he asks.

“Simple. I can’t redeploy forces to protect Lothal, but I can give them a fighting chance by strengthening what we have in the Rim. The Admirals like the idea of having a good-sized striking force separated from the rest, just in case. A reserve, if you will. General Dodonna and General Rieekan concur.”

Jame grins as there is one name left off of the ‘concurrence’ list.

Mon waits for his expression to sober before she speaks. Her voice takes on a formal tone. “Jame Blackthorn, I hereby appoint you as Commander of the Alliance Reserve Striking Force, centered on the Lothal sector. You are also appointed as a Rear Admiral in the Alliance Naval Forces with seniority from this date.”

Jame Blackthorn sits down, to Garm and Hera’s grins. “Can I name my own group and division commanders?” he asks.

Mon looks at Hera. Hera gives a quick nod. “Yes,” Hera says, quickly.

“So who do I report to?” Jame asks.

Mon smiles. “You are under the command of Admiral Raddus and Vice Admiral Ackbar, at least administratively. Operationally, you answer to General Syndulla and Governor Azadi, at least until we need Hera again,” she says. “Colonel Vorserrie will be assigned to Governor Azadi’s office to assist him.”

 _Not to mention keep an eye on a former Imperial governor,_ Jame thinks, but does not say.

Hera speaks again. “This is not to say that you’re tied to Lothal. It might be good to keep a frigate here on rotation, or a group, but it might be better not to call attention to us. Your orders as as before. To disrupt Imperial supply and communications; to take whatever warships and merchant shipping that you can in the deepest part of the Outer Rim, the Unknown Regions, and Wild Space.”

Jame looks over at Garm. “What about you, Garm? How’re you with all of this?”

“I know my skills, Jame,” he says quickly. “I will go back to being a frigate captain. Or I can help Azadi and Nola.” He looks at Mon, then smiles. “I might take my frigate to Base One.” His smile grows. “I think I need to mend fences.” The smile turns devilish. “At least until she pisses me off again.”

Mon matches his devilish expression. “There’s the son of the Dragon,” Mon says. Her eyes track downward. She looks up. “General, Commander, if you will finalize the arrangements. Admiral,” she says as he looks up. “May the Force be with you. Good hunting.”

“Well,” Jame says, as the holocomm dims. “I haven’t exactly accepted.”

Hera slides an object towards him. “Pick that up and you have.”

He smiles. A rank plaque with four blue pips and an additional red one in the center rests on the wood. He takes a deep breath as he sees a smiling orange face under blue eyes. He nods and picks it up.

“Okay, General. I need a month’s leave.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola Vorserrie stands outside the hatch of the flag quarters, waiting her turn. The door snaps open. She is nearly bowled over by Meglann Florlin. The once and future diner-owner has a broad smile painted on her face as she slides to a stop. Nola’s eyes track down to the shiny new rank plaque on her jacket. The three blue pips in an upside-down triangle signify her promotion to Lieutenant Commander. Nola wastes no time in pulling the younger woman into her arms, holding her tightly in congratulations. Both stand in the passageway as crew pass them by.

A quick kiss and Nola’s turn comes up. She grins as she sees Jame and Dani, their own rank insignia new. “So I guess I am getting promoted to General?” she asks with a cheeky smile. “It seems like everybody who walked in walked out with a shiny new bauble.”

“Sorry, No-no. Not actually your boss. You might take that up with Mon or Jan Dodonna.”

“Fat lot of good that will do me,” she grumbles. Dani gestures towards the chair at the table. “So what is Meglann’s new assignment?”

“Commander of the Scouting Group. She’ll stay on the Bucket, but will be in command of our two corvettes when Tamsin moves to a frigate and takes over the Striking Group.”

“How did you manage to pry Tamsin off of the _Jamestyn’s Pride_?” Nola asks.

Dani smiles. “We promoted her to full Captain, just like he did me. We promised that she could pick the new captain. Obie Helm is ready. Plus we promised her a night with you,” her foster-sister adds, the smile morphing to a different expression.

“Marvelous,” is all Nola says, with an eyeroll. Memories of dealing with the contentious Alderaani/ Mandalorian are still fresh in her mind, even after over a decade.

“I’m assuming you have moved Chardri Tage somewhere else?”

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Jame answers.

Nola starts to open her mouth, but thinks better of it. Instead, she asks something equally insane. “I need a month’s leave.”

Jame’s mouth quirks up as Dani shakes her head. “Why?” Dani asks.

Nola looks down. “Kylantha contacted me from Naboo.” She waits for them both to say something about the former Queen. A Queen thought by some to be an Imperial puppet. One who had become Queen upon the death of the Queen that Nola had been charged with protecting.

“The Deathtrooper with the Rebel’s face?” Jame asks.

“She has some information that the new Queen, Dalne’ may be the target.”

“It’s been what? Two years since we discovered that Weapons Design had been playing with genetic disguises? We haven’t been able to find anything,” Dani says.

“No, Draven hasn’t been able to find anything. Big difference,” Nola says. “I’d like to go and see what Kylantha and Hana have.” She sees him look away at the mention of Hana Yung-Shaizan.

He is quiet for a moment. “Go. Take our new Scouting Group commander and her boat. Brief Drop and Fenn. May have to do some undercover stuff.”

Nola nods, starts to rise. Both of the others rise as well. They both pull her into their arms. As they break away, Jame looks up at her. “Let me get the thing established. Then I’ll come to help you if you need.”

“Okay, Admiral,” she says.

As the door closes, Dani looks at him. “You sure it’s wise that you go to Naboo? Sosha is the Princess of Theed, now. She may be the next Queen. If it gets out—,” she starts.

He takes her hands in his. “I know, Captain,” he says.

+=+=+=+=+=

Rex embraces Wolffe, just before he takes up his pack. He walks up to the ramp of the battered _Nu_ -class shuttle. Hera sees him turn and watch the scene in front of the ship.

Jame holds his niece tight against him, his hands caressing her hair. “I would come with you, Uncle Jame,” Sabine says.

“Nah. You’re the appointed Protector of Lothal. Your job is here. He kisses her on the forehead, then releases her. He smiles at Hera Syndulla, then brings his fingers to his brow.

Hera smiles softly as she returns the salute. Her hand trails over the dark green armor that he wears, its two Wren handprints on the chestplate. She looks him up and down; the long dark coat framing his form, a leather belt with its inset teeth from long ago. Hera remembers Kanan telling her the significance of those teeth; of the long-ago Hunt with Ahsoka.

A standard A280 blaster sits on his hip; replacing the blaster he had given Ezra over two years ago. Her eyes widen as she realizes that the two lightsabers in their concealed case are at his side, rather than on his back. The lightsabers of a beloved teacher and a beloved student. One dead, the other hopefully still in hiding.

Hera places her hand against the multicolored handprint, the one made by a young woman who was as much of a little sister to her as anyone. She notices two blasters in shoulder holsters under the coat. Her heart clinches as she remembers placing those blasters and an old leather flight jacket in a box. The day after a small runabout came back with two, where three had left.

Both survivors less than whole.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Jame,” she says quietly.

Blackthorn nods. “Me too.” He lifts a small datachip. “I appreciate you getting these maps of Malachor’s last known locations. They’ll be a big help.”

“I didn’t, Jame,” she says. “Mon did. You think Draven would give it to me, now that I am associated with you?”

“Probably not,” he says. Their comfortable laughter rises together.

Jame pulls her to his chest. “Are you okay, Hera?” he asks.

She takes a moment to reply, resting her head against his shoulder. “No. I’m not. It’s like an open wound every day. But I’ll live.” She looks down. “I’m sorry about what I said about losing my Jedi. I didn’t mean that your Jedi—,” Hera stops as he places his fingers over her lips.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Hera,” he says. “We both grieve. The universe is a darker place without Kanan Jarrus in it.” He looks down. “There’s no guarantee that I’ll ever bring Ahsoka home.” He grins. “She’ll probably be here waiting when I get back.”

“A little faith, Admiral,” Rex says as he walks up. “You’ve got me going on this little adventure.”

“What do you expect to do, Jame?” Hera asks.

“Get things started. Set my ‘specialists’ on their task. Trying to find a way to Malachor.”

Rex looks at him. “Specialists?” he asks.

“Hellooo,” comes a loud, accented voice. “Admiral! We are here?”

Rex closes his eyes. “Tell me you didn’t hire him, Croft,” he says, using a former name.

“I didn’t. Hera threatened him. I threatened him. Even his assistant pirate threatened him.”

“Mmph,” Rex says.

Hondo Ohnaka runs his hands over the black hull of the _Laughing Beskad._ “Nice ship,” he says.

“Hondo,” Hera warns.

The pirate holds his hands up. “Alright, alright. Just idle admiration.” He grows serious, his eyes in their goggles taking them in. “They said you are a Jedi,” he says to Jame. “That you know Ahsoka.”

After a moment, Jame nods. “Yeah.” His expression darkens. “Heard you kidnapped her once. Was going to sell her until some younglings kicked your ass.”

Hondo recoils. “A misunderstanding. I was misunderstood.” He smiles. “Did she tell you that Lassa and I helped save her, later? That I gave her valuable lightsaber crystals?”

“Yeah. That’s why I ain’t tossing your useless ass out of the airlock,” Rex says.

Jame jerks his head towards the ramp. “Get aboard. Don’t touch anything. Rex gets first dibs on the bunks.” His expression darkens. “Don’t even think about going into the aft cabin.”

Hondo moves up the ramp, chattering away about insults and the like. Jame looks at Melch, who shrugs his shoulders.

Jame grins. “Don’t worry, Melch. I saw what you did with the engines. You get second dibs on the bunks.”

Melch squeals and grunts happily as he walks up the ramp.

Rex looks at him. “You owe me,” he says simply. “But I think that you might’ve given me back some of my faith.” He turns and walks up the ramp.

“Rex,” Jame says.

Rex stops and turns.

“Gregor used to sleep a lot in the cockpit, when he needed to be alone.”

Rex smiles softly and nods, turning.

Hera hugs him tightly. “I could use some good news, Jame,” she says.

He kisses her cheek. “Yeah, I know.” He smirks. “Probably will get some in about nine or ten months,” he finishes. He turns and walks up the ramp.

 _Does everyone know on this damned crew?_ Hera Syndulla asks herself.

As the old shuttle, a last reminder of his wife, as well as a cheerful, damaged Republic commando rises, Jame Blackthorn looks out the canopy. He places his hand on the clearsteel.

His family—Drop, Dani, Meglann, Nola, as well as three younger members lift their hands in farewell.

Members of a newer family stand next to them as well.

He thinks of the lush green world, a pristine lake, and a huge castle that he and a young rebel had spent time living in the light. When their world together as lovers was new and young.

He smiles. _It is time_.

The stars shift into streaks.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka takes a deep breath and watches as Morai flies ahead. She takes a step into the stream of water, moving forward. She is soon waist deep, following her guardian and her friend.

She sees Jame’s face in her mind. A long ago phrase, hammered into her as a child comes to mind.

_It is as the Force wills it._

She smiles.

_Soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theories of Time and Space  
> Natasha Trethewey
> 
> You can get there from here, though  
> there’s no going home.  
>    
> Everywhere you go will be somewhere  
> you’ve never been. Try this:  
>    
> head south on Mississippi 49, one-  
> by-one mile markers ticking off  
>    
> another minute of your life. Follow this  
> to its natural conclusion—dead end  
>    
> at the coast, the pier at Gulfport where  
> riggings of shrimp boats are loose stitches  
>    
> in a sky threatening rain. Cross over  
> the man-made beach, 26 miles of sand  
>    
> dumped on the mangrove swamp—buried  
> terrain of the past. Bring only  
>    
> what you must carry—tome of memory,  
> its random blank pages. On the dock  
>    
> where you board the boat for Ship Island,  
> someone will take your picture:  
>    
> the photograph—who you were—  
> will be waiting when you return.


End file.
